


A Good Match

by nire, slipsthrufingers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (at first), (they're all between young adult and full adult don't overthink it), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Renly/Loras - Freeform, Canon-Typical Awfulness, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Unhappy marriage, Unresolved Sexual Tension, closeted homosexuality, initial jaime/cersei, initial renly/brienne, it get resolved, liberties taken with ages, specific warnings in end notes, technically an infidelity fic but ymmv, two writers in a trenchcoat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 61,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22736122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nire/pseuds/nire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipsthrufingers/pseuds/slipsthrufingers
Summary: Renly’s new bride was the talk of the castle.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 602
Kudos: 854





	1. Wedded

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a rough journey. We hope you'll trust us as we take you to the end, which we promise will be a happy one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to Luthien and Samirant for their help with this.
> 
> Content warning in end notes.

Renly stopped shaving the day he married Brienne. The beard grew in slowly, first a shadow across his cheeks and jaw, then thicker, above the lip, before, almost overnight, the rest filled in thick and bushy and black.

They said it lent him a look of a man grown. _Lent,_ as though it were not truly his, and would never be truly his. The beard did little to conceal the boyish grin and twinkly eyes, the likes of which stout, stern Stannis and boisterous Robert never possessed. They all saw that, under the beard. They all expected him to shave, soon, and perhaps discard his ugly wife with it.

Brienne did not think she liked it much. It seemed to her the thicker it got, the less she recognised her friend beneath the dark hair. But it was her husband’s choice and she would support it, as he supported her. He did not ask her to wear dresses, except on special occasions, and still allowed her access to the training yards which was more than she had expected from any marriage. If he wanted to grow a beard, then that was his choice.

They took supper together, every day, with a different guest each night. They would remark on her training, or his lack thereof. She would become flustered. He would smile, wide, and say something to the effect of “My wife, I would never be safe without her,” and his look, fond with something secret in it, would twist inside her as surely as an enemy’s blade.

The guests would laugh. They made a queer couple, to be sure, but proper, still all very proper.

Renly laughed with them, always so happy to joke, even if he was the one they laughed at. “How should I laugh at others if I cannot laugh at myself?” he would say, twinkle in his eye.

Brienne would retire early, citing her training as a source of exhaustion. She had learned how to smile in that chagrined way. “You see, it is unsuited to a woman, even one such as myself,” she would lie.

Late at night, Renly would slip between the covers next to her, and if he smelled like wine and sweat, or if there was a strand of hair on his pillow the same colour as the newly knighted son of their guests, well. It wasn’t Brienne’s place to comment.

But that did not stop the comments of others.

* * *

Renly’s new bride was the talk of the castle.

“I cannot think why Renly would settle for _her_ , of all people,” Cersei said to Jaime over lunch one day. “I know Robert told him he must marry a Stormlands girl, but surely there were better choices than _that_ aurochs.”

She swirled her wine and took a sip through smirking lips, happy to have another victim pinned beneath her paw to play with.

“Well she’s more man than woman. I think we _know_ why,” added Jaime, thinking of the way she had beaten that Connington arse into the dust of the training yard that morning. He was rewarded with a rare laugh from his sister, which made him smile too. “I should be glad that she is to be _your_ sister, not mine.”

“A shriveled imp of a brother and a giant bull of a goodsister. Our family deserves better than this mockery.”

“A queen of a daughter,” Jaime cajoled, pulling Cersei’s wrist and pressing his lips to it, inching up with every kiss. “Cleverer than her king, who knew only to do battle, and more beautiful than any woman in the world.”

Unbidden, Jaime thought of Cersei, swinging a sword like Renly’s wife, but the image felt false. No, his sister was too delicate for a brute’s pastime. 

“Is she still playing at being a knight?” she asked, voice breathy and full of promise for what was to come.

“Every morning,” he said between trailing kisses along her arm until he reached the open neckline of her dress. “Every night.”

“It is probably all she does at night.”

Jaime’s breath quickened. Cersei’s skin bloomed into gooseflesh under his warm exhalation. Smooth and unmarred, unlike the wench, though under the evening lamplight, Cersei’s hair could almost be the same colour as the wench’s. Jaime remembered the lumbering beast raising her tunic to wipe some sweat off her neck, and a sliver of skin beneath showed criss-crossing scars, slightly raised and ugly pink. The lovelorn scullery maids had stopped mid-stride to watch the movement, but the moment she looked towards them, they lowered their heads and scurried away. She then turned to look at him, and the furious blush overtaking her freckled face was a sight he would not soon forget.

Jaime was hard in his breeches. Cersei noticed it, and with quick movements she had his cock in her dainty hands.

There was not much room for thought, after that; only the sliding of skin against skin, and the coupling of lovers hiding from the world.

When they were done, him tucking his cock back into his breeches, her fixing her hair in a nearby looking glass, she said, lightly, “You should challenge her.”

He stilled, laces still in his hands. “What?”

“You said she has faced no real challenger yet—“ she wiped the corner of her lips “—I think she ought to know her place.”

Jaime scoffed and pulled his laces tight. 

“I said ‘real challenger’, not someone who would humiliate her. Much as that would amuse us, I doubt Father would appreciate a slight against the Baratheons, and so close to your wedding too.”

Cersei looked thoughtful, and then, “At my wedding, then.”

“At your wedding?”

“You really are stupid,” she said, laughing. “There will be a tourney, and if the queen would like to see a friendly bout between her brother and her new goodsister, surely no one can speak against it?” She put her hand on his jaw, her nails pressed into his skin. “You will do it, won’t you? After all, our victory will put her in her place.”

Jaime considered it for a moment. It would be easy enough to arrange, and he could do it in such a way as to save the lady some grace. He tilted his head. “All right. If it will make you happy, sweet sister.”

She released him. “It will,” she said, and already she sounded like a queen.

Jaime rubbed his jaw, smoothing out the divots left behind by her nails. She didn’t see him do so. Instead, she had her back to him, choosing between one jeweled necklace and another. They were to take supper with the Baratheons, that night.

With a kiss on her cheek, he left her to decide between the diamonds or the rubies. She would want to look the part of the queen and he knew nothing of fashion that would help her.

* * *

It still felt awkward to call him _husband_. Brienne stuttered over it in conversation, the word foreign on her tongue, like the strange High Valyrian her septa had tried to teach her in her youth.

Renly had no trouble calling her _wife_. He said it easily and often. “My wife and I shall join you for dinner,” or “My wife is from Tarth. She is to inherit her own lands when her father passes, is that not _strange_!”

In the hours before supper, before she and Renly would reunite after spending their days apart, she would sit before her looking glass and practise the word. “Husband,” she said to her reflection, hating the way her voice would stutter over the consonants. She tried again: “He is my husband.”

It did not feel right to her, to call him that. He had been her friend for many years before they married. But Renly insisted on the artifice. “You _are_ my wife, Brienne,” he said cheerfully as he passed the jug of freshly pressed juice across the table. “We swore vows before the gods. I am your husband from this day until my last day.”

“I am not used to it, is all,” she said quietly. She did not say that, in general, marriage had not been what she had expected. Perhaps it was a good thing that he did not reach across the sheets for her in the night, did not take his rights. But it was lonely to sleep beside someone who smelled of someone else.

“Well the sooner you adjust the better,” Renly said, taking a bite of his toast, leaving crumbs in his whiskers. “Will you train in the yard again? Loras said he might join you.”

She flushed - could feel the heat of her blood beneath her skin. “I will do as I always do,” she said into her goblet. She wasn’t sure if it were Renly’s attentions or his mention of Ser Loras that discomposed her, this time. It had been a while since she knew for certain what every flutter in her chest meant.

Renly had never been privy to her thoughts. For all he knew she was still harbouring illusions about him. He continued, “I should love to see the two of you fight. It would be such a delight.”

There was a stronger pang, this time. An offence. Surely he did not mean to have his wife fight his lover? Surely he knew what people would say? What people had said? But such furies were quelled by the sure knowledge that he was her husband, consummated or otherwise, and a good highborn lady would not contradict her husband so. Septa Roelle had said as much, when she prepared Brienne for her wedding to Renly. Renly had, later on, called the Septa a ‘doddering seagull’, though despite all his complaints about the Septa’s unfashionable manners, he still misliked having his wife talk back to him. Brienne had seen highborn ladies demurely demur using arts the Septa never taught Brienne. One such expert of the art was Lady Margaery, kind and gentle and clever like a thorn underneath all the petals. What would Lady Margaery say?

And yet, Lady Margaery would never swing a sword in the courtyard, would never be in Brienne’s position. “Ser Loras would be more welcome in the yard than I, I am certain,” she said.

“Nonsense,” Renly said. “Anyone moderately well-versed in sword fighting would acknowledge your skill. You belong there as well as any man.”

Words like these were what kept Brienne from truly resenting her husband. No one else, not even her father, would so openly praise her for what she was. And so it was to Renly that Brienne said, “The Kingslayer doesn’t think so.”

“The Kingslayer?” Renly asked, with interest. “He talked to you?”

“He’s been watching me train,” Brienne said. She had felt the Kingslayer’s gaze burning into her, and the heat merely forged her resolve not to fail. She had never had better form. “He never says anything, but I know disapproval when I see it.”

“He is a mockery of a knight, and his greatest accomplishment was slaying an elderly king under his charge. If he offends you, just challenge him and knock him into the dust,” Renly said in that tone of his that made it difficult to tell if he’d been jesting. Certainly there was a twinkle of something in his eye, though Brienne couldn’t tell if it was because his wit amused himself, or if he truly thought she should fight the Kingslayer, if only because it would be diverting.

“He’s a Lannister,” Brienne said. “I doubt King Robert would appreciate having your wife beat up his soon-to-be goodbrother.”

Renly laughed openly, then. “You do have wit! You must have noticed that Robert hates Ser Jaime. He could scarcely stand to have the man in the Kingsguard! If not for Lord Tywin, he would have sent Ser Jaime to The Wall, or worse. But no, you’re right. Robert would never forgive us if such a humiliation happens on an unremarkable afternoon, witnessed by only the scullery maids. No, we must let him watch, and everyone else with him.” Somewhere in the middle of his speech, he had stood up, the juice in his goblet sloshing as he started pacing back and forth.

“Lord Renly…?”

He stopped. Raised the goblet as if to toast her. “My dear, you should fight the Kingslayer at the tourney.”

It was then that the Sept of Baelor rang its bell, signaling the time.

“I am late,” Renly said, setting down his goblet. “Small Council matters, you know how it is.”

“Go,” Brienne said, weary despite the early hour. “I will meet you at supper.”

“Supper, of course,” Renly said. “I nearly forgot. We’re to take supper with the Lannisters, tonight. Wear something lovely, will you?” _Wear a skirt_ , he meant. He pressed his lips to her cheek, chaste like he would kiss a sister, and left her to finish her breakfast alone.

The day passed in much the same way as every other day, spending time in the training yard, drilling alone in a corner unless one of the more desperate squires approached her for a bout. She could tell they did not precisely _like_ asking to cross swords with her, but there was a clear hierarchy here—the squires from richer families received more attention than those from less established houses. And they sought attention, chiefly, from the knights who frequented the yards. There, too, there was pecking order, though it had taken Brienne some time to puzzle it out. 

At first she thought it was the same as it was for the squires—after all the richest knights, Ser Jaime and Ser Loras, had the rule of the yard—but the more time she spent there, the more she realised that it was not so simple as that. It was not their money that the other men respected; it was their skill. Their dedication. There was no doubt that they were the _best_ of the knights there, the most skilled, though in Brienne’s opinion, Loras was too showy and Ser Jaime was too arrogant. What she would have given to fight either of them, even if only for a minute or two, rather than the shy Payne boy. Podrick was sweet, if you could be patient enough to decipher his stuttering. A fight with Loras, though almost certainly humiliating one way or another, would be a welcome challenge. 

The other knights respected Loras. Ser Jaime too, though he was not liked in the way Loras was. The men smiled at Loras, and enjoyed it when he trounced them with flourish day after day, but they challenged Ser Jaime with the faint hope of being able to say they had beaten The Kingslayer. 

Ser Jaime didn’t seem to care that he was hated. He prowled around the yard, picking and choosing from his challengers with the kind of detached intensity of a lion or a wolf on the prowl. He fought to win, to destroy, not to teach, nor to learn.

More than once Brienne found herself wondering who would win, between the two. They had faced each other at tourneys before, and as far as she was aware the score was practically even. But tourney fighting was not the same as a _true_ fight, where neither opponent held back; a fight to the death.

She had spent more time than she cared to admit thinking it over, imagining bouts between the two knights, visualising in her mind each thrust and parry and clash of swords as they fought to the death. More often than not Ser Jaime was the one she imagined standing over the other, sword thick with dripping blood as Ser Loras bled out into the sand.

Sometimes the image would intrude upon her thoughts as she went about the rest of her day, even when she was nowhere near the training yard—most often when she was sitting down to another lonely dinner, her husband sitting across from her. It made her feel guilty.

Brienne watched their fights from the edge of the yard, resigned to the fact that all she was ever likely to do here would be to _observe_. It was a boring way to learn, but it was what she could do. She watched Ser Jaime’s feet as he faced off against some goldcloak, watched how his grip on the sword shifted subtly depending on his opponent’s style of attack, and later when she was alone, she would test the technique on a straw dummy.

It was what she did that day; after seeing Ser Loras use a particular feint against some knight from the Eyrie, and thinking it looked reasonably easy to mimic, she retreated to her little corner of the yard to try it. At first she closed her eyes and repeated the movement in her mind, slowly feeling her body move through the motions then she tried to imagine she were facing down an opponent.

“Your wrist is all wrong, wench,” called the Kingslayer. It made her jump in fright; he was quite close and she had not heard him approach.

“Do you enjoy sneaking up on others?” she asked sourly.

He smirked and stepped a little closer. His hand gripped the pommel of his ridiculous golden sword. “I _did_ call your name, but you were so absorbed in your daydream you did not seem to hear me.”

Renly’s suggestion over breakfast, of knocking the Kingslayer into the dust if he offended her was looking rather appealing. Still, as satisfying as it might be to hit him, it would do her reputation no favours, in the yard or at court. So she turned away from him. “My name is not ‘ _wench’_.”

But he did not leave. Instead he took a few steps until he was standing behind her practice dummy looking thoughtful. “Well you answered to that with more vigour than you did when I called you ‘Lady Baratheon’, so perhaps it _is_ your name.”

Brienne took a step forward, closing her distance to him. They were about the same height, but when they were close enough, she was taller—he recognised this, from the way he cocked his chin up to meet her gaze. “My name is Brienne. Lady Brienne, if you’re inclined to be proper, or merely Brienne, if you wish to be scandalous, but never _wench_ , Kingslayer.”

There was a flash of something in the Kingslayer’s verdant eyes. Anger? It couldn’t be, because his mouth curled into a cocksure smirk. “Renly’s wife is even stranger than what the gossips say about her.”

“And what do the gossips say about me, pray tell?” Brienne said, adjusting the grip on her sword, moving her foot a little into a proper stance. She turned her eyes to the training dummy, though in her mind it was one and the same as the Kingslayer.

“The gossips are obvious. ‘She’s an ugly aurochs’, they say—I can’t say they’re wrong, but they did gloss over your astonishing eyes. ‘She pretends to be a knight’, and, well—” he shrugged, brandishing his own sword, adjusting his own stance, “—that all seems true, but it’s a little boring, isn’t it? A little on the surface. No one mentioned that half the scullery is in love with you, or that you fight not only with a sword. Tell me, what would your lord husband think if I were to spar with you now?”

“He would be disappointed that I humiliated you on such a boring day,” Brienne said.

“I doubt you would, with your wrist all wrong like that.” He adjusted his grip, turning his wrist just so, then slowly, slowly, extended his sword until the flat of it whispered against Brienne’s knuckles, a perverse imitation of a courtly kiss. He used the flat of the blade to move her hand, and blood was thundering so loudly in her head that she could do nothing but follow his silent direction.

He withdrew his sword and sheathed it. “Now, you’re all set to humiliate disgraced knights. I will see you at supper, Lady Brienne.”

He left the training yard, the eyes of a dozen men following him. When he was out of sight, the men turned to look at Brienne, and her embarrassment exploded in one quick slash, splitting the training dummy in two, its top part sliding and falling to the ground with a dusty thud.

With her mouth tasting like sawdust, Brienne lost the will to train more. She sheathed her sword and called on one of the lady’s maids that Renly had assigned to her. She had a supper to prepare for, and Renly had told her to wear _something lovely_.

Lili was the tallest and strongest of Brienne’s maids, and hence easily her favourite. The girl wasn’t crudely large as Brienne was, but she’d worked at a farm, before this, so her hands were calloused and dark from the work. Her grip was strong, and her arms even moreso, and thus she was the only one strong enough to lace up the corset; she _pulled_ until a hint of waistline was at last visible. It left Brienne breathless. Some women had yielding midsections, and their posture benefitted from corsets; Brienne was not one of those women.

“The girls were talking, milady,” Lili said, in between tugs, “and thought that we might put some rolled linens under your breasts and push them up.”

For a moment Brienne felt lightheaded, felt the need to sit down, and it was not just the fault of the brutal undergarment. Instead she gripped the bedpost more tightly until her knuckles were white and the prickling behind her eyes no longer threatened her composure.

“That won’t be necessary, Lili,” she said, voice calmer than she’d thought it would be. Perhaps it was all the practice she’d had of late, masking her true feelings from the world.

“If you say so, milady. Or, we might try it another time, for a smaller occasion?”

Lili was also the most persuasive of Brienne’s maids. The both of them knew that Brienne was not likely to put on a corset again until at least a fortnight hence, which would be for King Robert’s wedding. Still, Brienne found it hard to reject her outright, and so she settled with, “Perhaps. Which gown, do you think?”

“The dark blue one,” Lili said without pause, and she moved _much_ faster than Brienne thought her capable of to retrieve the gown from the wardrobe. Lili produced it with a flourish, holding it out for Brienne to inspect with an encouraging smile on her face. “It goes so well with your colouring, milady.”

It was the only dress of hers that was pretty enough that it stayed so even when Brienne wore it. Still, she hesitated. “I had planned to wear that at the wedding,” she said.

The pause Lili gave was short enough that perhaps, if Brienne were more distracted, she would not have noticed she’d faltered. “Milady, Lord Renly has requested you wear the black and yellow one he had made for you at the wedding.”

“I see,” Brienne said. It wasn’t a surprise, not exactly. It would be a formal occasion and Brienne would be expected to attend as Lady Baratheon. Still, she had hoped Renly might see sense and have her wear anything else. Something plain black, perhaps? She would seem as if she was in mourning, but everyone had commented on her sombreness often enough that a black gown at a wedding would scarcely be a controversy. _Can’t have you be prettier than him,_ Brienne thought, though she quickly stifled the voice. She could never be prettier than Renly, no matter what she wore. She swallowed. “Then yes, the blue will do nicely.”

“Yes, milady.” Lili smiled and dropped into a little curtsey—more a bob than anything else—and set about readying the blue gown for Brienne to wear. Brienne had no choice but to return the smile, however weak her own might be. She knew Lili was trying to be encouraging and meant no harm by her suggestions, not in the way some of her other handmaids did. 

It had hurt, the first time she realised that even some of the maids mocked her, though they mostly did not do so in her presence. But then they were the ones who changed her sheets every day. They knew better than most what a farce her marriage truly was.

It was not as though Brienne hadn’t known what to expect. Renly had been open with her from the start when he suggested the arrangement, when he had explained the ways it would benefit them both. _We shall both be free to do as we wish_ , he had said. It had been a compelling argument and she had been easily convinced.

But it was one thing to know what she was to expect from her marriage, or rather what she should _not_ expect from marriage.

It was quite another to live it.

* * *

Jaime was surprised to find he was looking forward to dinner with the Baratheons. Normally he hated such occasions; he found the conversation tedious and dull, for the most part. He much preferred to spend his time in the yard. Things were much simpler with a sword in his hand. 

But he could be sure, this time, that there would be someone else there who found even less enjoyment from the meal than him. Lady Brienne clearly hated him, like so many others, but there was something about her he found intriguing. He could not quite put his finger on it. She was nothing like the other women of court, nor any of the other knights in the yard.

So he did not find a way to beg off attending the dinner Cersei had planned as he would usually have done. Instead he bathed and dressed, taking care with his appearance, knowing that Cersei would want them both looking their best. If Tyrion were here, he would’ve made some jape as Jaime rubbed a little scented oil into his scalp so that his curls would catch the candlelight better, but he was still stuck in Casterly Rock along with their father. _You’re already just as pretty as our sweet sister,_ he would say, before swiping wine from the tray beside Jaime’s bed.

 _Cersei would disagree,_ Jaime would say to Tyrion. _She'd say I'm more fit to be the wench's brother if my hair isn't shiny enough._ Gods, Tyrion would delight at the sight of Brienne. There was nothing the boy liked more than exiles and curiosities.

Finally he decided he looked well enough for a Baratheon family dinner. Cersei would not find fault with his appearance, he was sure. All that was left was to strap his sword belt around his waist and collect his sister from her rooms so they could walk to the royal wing together.

Of course by the time he arrived at her rooms, she was still not quite ready, and he was made to wait in her solar while they “finished the final touches,” some maid advised him. It took a good quarter of an hour extra before Cersei floated into the room in an appropriately regal blood-red gown. It was the same colour as the tunic he wore which had been laid out for him when he’d finished his bath. It hadn’t occurred to him that her sphere of influence extended as far as his manservant.

He pointed between the two of them. “Is this not a little… assertive, for a family dinner?” he asked.

“Nonsense,” she said with a wave before checking her reflection one last time in the looking glass. 

He came to stand beside her. They looked like the King and Queen on a cyvasse board: a matched set. “Do you think they’ll forget we’re Lannisters if we don’t dress the part?”

She only rolled her eyes in reply, before she took his elbow and steered him from the room. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

There was no sense in pointing out that _she_ was the reason they’d be late. Jaime knew well enough it was just another one of her little schemes, though he could not see the point in this one. Unless her scheme was to ensure he was utterly starving by the time they finally arrived at King Robert’s rooms. There was one thing to be said about being forced to socialise with the upstart Stormlords, and that was that they would be well fed, as long as they got there before Robert ate it all.

It turned out, however, that Jaime needn’t have worried. Aside from the truly impressive amount of food piled on the table, the gluttonous king was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Stannis Baratheon, the eldest of the King’s brothers and the least favoured, stood by the door and greeted them.

“Lady Cersei,” he said, bowing, and then, slightly inclining his head, “Lord Jaime.”

Jaime didn’t miss the fact that Stannis hadn’t addressed him as _Ser_ Jaime. It was a common enough thing, now that he was out of the white cloak and reinstated as heir to Casterly Rock, though neither of those robbed him of his knighthood. Most men who called Jaime ‘lord’ instead of ‘ser’ did so with smirks; Stannis did it with solemnity.

The wench would make a better wife to this one instead of Renly.

“Lord Stannis,” Cersei greeted with a curtsey. “My, but you’re early. Is Robert still getting ready, then? I hear he entertains in the same armour he wore when he slew Rhaegar Targaryen. I was looking forward to seeing his dashing figure.”

“His Grace,” Stannis said, “extends his apologies, but he won’t be joining us tonight.”

 _That_ shook Jaime from whatever contemplations had arrested him, and he said, “And what could be more important than supping with his betrothed?”

“I’m afraid I am not in His Grace’s confidence when it relates to royal affairs. You would be better off asking the Master of Laws.”

As though summoned by his title, Renly appeared at the doorway, his wife on his arm. Her eyes were downcast, her gown the deepest blue. Jaime swallowed a taunt that would get her scowling at him.

“I heard someone mentioning me,” Renly said, striding into the room, ignorant to the tense clench of Cersei’s jaw and the clutch of her grip on Jaime’s arm. “Gossiping so early in the evening, are we?”

“Never,” Cersei said, voice light only through a concerted effort on her part. Jaime knew she’d likely rail against the slight later, when it was just the two of them once more. “I was just disappointed that I won’t be able to spend time with my beloved before our wedding. Did he say anything to you? He’s not unwell, is he?”

Renly snorted inelegantly. “I doubt it,” he said, and it was clear from the rude tone and the rosy blush on his cheeks that he had had more than a few glasses of Dornish already. At his side, the new Lady Baratheon turned red too, though she was quite clearly sober, and tried to tug her arm free of Renly’s grip. 

Standing as they were beside each other, they made an even more absurd couple than the gossips painted. Renly was a little shorter than his wife, but he was all fine and delicate features. A polished marble statue. She was a slab of granite, unhewn and unvarnished, every fault laid bare for the world to see. And then someone had wrapped a dress around it.

“Lady Brienne, well met,” Jaime said and inclined his head politely, ignoring the pinch of Cersei’s nails. “I almost did not recognise you in a dress.”

She looked up, and her bright blue eyes flashed, the same way they had earlier when he had baited her in the training yard. She was very reactive, every emotion clear to read on her face, like one of Tyrion’s books. He hoped she would learn, soon, how to guard her face the way she had learned to guard her off-side, or the women of the court would eat her alive.

“Ser Jaime,” she said politely. “Your house colours suit you better than white.”

It was her second insult of the day and she’d flung it so casually at him that it made him reconsider whether she really was such an absurd choice for Renly. Jaime wasn’t sure what to say in response, at least in present company. If they’d been in the yard he would not have hesitated to teach her a lesson. He was saved by, of all people, Stannis. The other man had been standing tensely to the side, hands awkwardly clasped behind his back while he watched the conversation parry back and forth, and when Jaime didn’t respond to Lady Brienne’s words he cleared his throat and turned to Cersei. “Lady Lannister, may I offer you some wine before we eat?”

“Yes,” Cersei said, and released Jaime’s arm to waft into the room. The skirts of her dress brushed heavily against Lady Brienne as she passed, forcing the other woman to take a little step back.

Renly followed behind, muttering something about needing a refill, which left Jaime and Lady Brienne there alone. She met his gaze properly this time, her blue eyes the same shade as the gown she wore, darker than he’d first thought, like an ocean at twilight.

"Do you often speak of things you shouldn't?" he asked, keeping his voice low enough that the others would not hear. 

"So it is just you who is allowed to listen to the idle gossip of serving girls?" But before Jaime could think of a retort to fling back at her, she curtseyed deeply and said, “Excuse me, I mustn’t keep my lord husband waiting.”

She left with long strides, the wide skirt of her gown swaying as she did so, her back unusually straight. The bodice was tight enough that he could almost see the blades of her shoulders and the taut muscles of her arms. She wore her hair up—he could see freckles dotting even the nape of her neck.

Cersei brought two goblets with her, striding towards the doorway where Jaime still stood. She craned her neck back, watching Lady Brienne lumber to her ponce of a husband, then turned to pass one goblet to Jaime. He took it and sipped. Dornish red. It was sour on his tongue and sour in his stomach, a reminder of his failures. The weak and the innocent—both had fallen through his neglect. If they had charged him with a crime, it shouldn’t have been the kingslaying.

“What an ugly, speckled thing,” Cersei said, just low enough so that the wench couldn’t hear it.

Jaime longed to march to the corner of the room and dunk the entire contents of his goblet into the spittoon, but instead he asked, “Shouldn’t you be with our host?”

Cersei scoffed. She took a generous gulp of wine and said, “Why? I’m not betrothed to him.”

“He’s a pathetic coot, that’s true, but he’s here on Robert’s behalf.”

“He’s here to make excuses for him. Never mind that. Why are you so interested in _her_?”

There was an odd edge to Cersei’s voice, almost as if she was accusing him of some transgression or other. For all she’d said about their twin souls, he could rarely divine her moods. “Would you not be curious to see a dancing bear in a mummer’s troupe?”

For the second time that evening, just as miraculously, Stannis came to his rescue by formally announcing that dinner was being served, and they were herded, without much fanfare, into a room with a round dinner table. It was already laden with food—steaming hunks of meat, bowls of crispy potatoes, and hearty stews. It was certainly a feast planned for a Baratheon appetite, that much was clear.

Stannis took his seat at the head of the table, the seat that Robert should have sat at, and he indicated that Cersei should sit at his right. Jaime quickly took the seat on her other side only to realise that left him sitting directly across from the wench. If he forgot himself and stretched his legs he would no doubt knock his ankles against hers.

The lady in question was back to studiously avoiding his gaze—actually, she was avoiding _everyone’s_ gaze. Her eyes were fixed firmly on her empty plate and it was clear from the set of her shoulders that she was uncomfortable. Renly held the flagon of Dornish over her wine glass, ready to top up her glass, but she covered it with her hand, fingers curling protectively around the rim. It didn’t bother Renly; instead he leaned across the table and refilled Cersei’s glass instead.

“You look radiant as ever, Lady Cersei. The look of a maiden in love suits you well,” Renly said, lifting the flagon with a flourish.

Cersei sipped the wine. Her cheeks were flushed, true enough, but anyone of sound mind would know it was no innocent blush. The wine had risen to her head. “Thank you, Lord Baratheon. I must say, you’re just as lively as when you were still a bachelor.”

Renly beamed. “I pride myself on that. My wife is kind to me, and just as I wish for her to be the best that she is, she allows me to keep my disposition. I am blessed to have her.”

“I’m sure hers is a greater blessing,” Jaime says. “Most men would never let their wives fight with a blade.”

The wench raised her head, meeting Jaime’s eyes directly. Gods, but they were striking tonight, bright where her gown was deep. For the third time today, she met his challenge. “Most men cannot accept that I am stronger than them.”

“Most men are fools. My lady wife is a gifted fighter, and so who cares what lies between her legs?”

Stannis made a noise of disapproval, and opened his mouth as though to speak, but he was interrupted when the servants’ door opened and birthed several maids carrying trays of even _more_ food.

Cersei used the disruption to lean in and whisper in Jaime’s ear, “Does _he_ know what’s between her legs, I wonder?”

Jaime paid it no mind. Right across him was the very lady in discussion, her face blooming crimson despite her dry cup. The hand curled over it was white with tension, her knuckles straining against her skin.

Cersei retreated, but under the table her hand crept up his breeches. He glanced at her. She was furious, that much was apparent in the glint of her eye and the poison of her smile, though they should seem innocent to the other people in the room. Cersei said, “Lady Baratheon—no, Lady Brienne, may I call you that?” She didn’t wait for the wench to answer, instead continuing, “We’re to be sisters, and though you’re younger than me you are _much_ wiser in the ways of a wife. Lord Renly seem to love you greatly.”

“I—Lord Renly has been kind to me,” Brienne said, her voice strangled. The poor woman couldn’t lie, Jaime thought with pity. Cersei would unhinge her jaw and swallow her whole.

“Nonsense,” Renly said, and he even said simple words with aplomb. “I love my wife greatly. There’s no one in this world I could ever choose to be mine but her.”

“And she was a good choice,” Stannis added, to the surprise of everyone at the table, because, frankly, he was easy to forget. Now that he had the attention of his companions, however, he did not seem sure of how to best proceed, and added, “She comes from a proud line of strong Stormlands breeding stock. Your mother gave birth to four healthy babes, I believe.”

If the redness in Brienne’s face and neck had been a sign of embarrassment, then Jaime was not quite sure what to make of the very pale shade of white she turned. Her affirmative nod to Stannis was tight, restrained, and said far more than any words could say.

“Oh?” Cersei said, and struck, “I did not know you had siblings, Lady Brienne. Someone told me that you were heir to Tarth.”

It was Renly who answered as he took the hand Brienne had curled over her cup, cradling it in his own. “My dear wife has suffered many losses in her life, including her dear older brother. It’s a subject of much grief among us, and I am sure you’re all kind enough to allow our dinner to go without such recollection.” For once, he looked grave—a strange expression on him. He could almost be Robert, or even, a shadow of Stannis.

Brienne looked grateful. Worse, she looked worshipful. If there was any doubt of love between them, it would be banished by that one look. Poor, poor girl. Did she know? She must, and this was why she stayed with him.

Jaime watched as she squeezed her husband’s hand in return and offered him a weak smile before she let it go, reaching into her lap to place her napkin on the table. “I am not sure I’m well. I think I should return to our rooms,” she said, eyes on Renly only.

Renly’s concern was genuine; his brows drew together as he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We can go whenever you like, wife.”

“No,” she said firmly. “No, please stay. You should spend time with your brother.”

Her voice hitched ever so slightly on her last word, and it made the wine in Jaime’s stomach turn, though he, in truth, had drunk very little of the stuff. It was something about her eyes. They were too compelling to be burdened with a sheen of tears as they were now, though she was doing an admirable job of keeping them contained.

“Oh, do stay,” Cersei implored, all false concern. Beneath the table she slid her hand higher up Jaime’s thigh before he shifted and dislodged it.

“If you are certain,” Renly said, eyes not leaving his wife’s.

“I insist,” she said, and stood, her chair scraping against the floor.

“Lady Brienne,” Stannis said, just as Brienne turned to leave. The woman glanced at Stannis with a hollow gaze. “My apologies. I merely intended to praise your house, not to dig up past griefs.”

“I still grieve today, my lord.” To the floor, she said, “If you’ll excuse me,” and left.

Jaime could stand it no more. Manners be damned, he heaved an entire stuffed dove onto his plate and started carving it, the sound of his knife scraping against silver jolting the rest to take some food themselves, and Stannis to lamely say, “Well, shall we eat?”

“Well,” Renly said, after they’d taken a few bites and had their wine refilled, “let’s move to cheerier topics, shall we? How have your nuptial preparations been going, goodsister? I can call you that already, can’t I, or am I violating a taboo?”

Jaime could scarcely believe Renly’s cheer. Cersei could barely contain herself. She’d practised for this, practised even in front of Jaime when they were both nude. She said, “All is well, my lord. I do hope, however—” she paused and sighed delicately, “—that I might see His Grace before we have to swear ourselves to each other in the Sept. We’ve only traded passing greetings, and I know enough that I love him, what a regal figure he cut with such—oh, forgive me, I may have overstepped. But it will be good if we can get to know each other a little more before the wedding day arrives, don’t you agree?”

Stannis looked discomfited. He refilled Cersei’s cup, perhaps thinking more wine would soothe her nerves better. He said, “I will relay your concern to His Grace, Lady Lannister. To become acquainted with his future queen is as much a royal affair as his Small Council business.”

Renly finished chewing his mouthful of venison and swallowed, before he added, “Robert has been out of sorts since Ned left to return to Winterfell.”

Ned Stark and his judgement could rot in the North, for all Jaime cared. His mouth was dry. He hadn’t drunk anything but a sip of the Dornish red, and he cared not for it. Oberyn Martell had left King’s Landing, too, about the same time as Ned Stark. Brothers, both of them, whose sisters fell for no good reason.

Gods.

Robert was not out of sorts because of Ned. Jaime set down his cutlery, and looked Stannis in the eye. “Robert is still in love with Lyanna Stark, isn’t he?”

Stannis’ eyes flitted, and he cleared his throat before taking a sip of the wine.

That was confirmation enough.

Beside him Cersei had gone still. All he could hear was the sound of her breath, shallow and malevolent. “Lyanna Stark was a whore,” she said, voice so low it made Jaime’s blood run cold.

Neither Baratheon brother jumped to the defence of the lately dead northern girl; instead they shared a meaningful look, before Renly very deliberately took up his knife and fork once more and said, “I cannot speak to Robert’s disposition, but as a newlywed myself, and husband to a lady in mourning, perhaps I could offer you some advice: care for him, do not diminish his grief, and he will grow to love you as much as he loves Lyanna—perhaps more.”

Stannis spoke, then, and once more they were startled. “I disagree. Love is not the aim of a marriage. A stout marriage can be built even without passion. Rather, passion is often the death of a marriage—and His Grace is a passionate man.”

“And where’s your wife, then?” Renly asked, chuckling. “A little passion could do you some good, brother. Either that or you’ll need to find religion.”

Stannis made a noise of quiet outrage, and it was possible he even found it in himself to think of some clever retort to send his brother’s way, but Jaime’s attentions were now solely on his sister, who was almost as red as her gown. He reached for her hand, wanting to offer her some comfort, but she smacked it away when he touched her and he didn’t try again. Instead she snatched up her goblet and downed the rest of her wine in one go, throat working tensely in her neck.

Very well, then. If Cersei wanted no comfort, then Jaime would offer none. He sliced himself a rich chunk of pudding and asked, lightly, “I heard you knighted a smuggler, Lord Stannis. Tell me, is it true he smells like onions?”

“Must you ask him that?” Renly moaned. “Very well, then, tell your story. I shan’t deny our guests the absolute _pleasure_ of it.”

Stannis told the story, which Jaime found interesting enough despite the arid delivery. Renly found a point to jump in with a tale of Ser Loras Tyrell, back when the boy still squired for him. If Renly’s eyes lit up and he smiled a little wider, no one mentioned it.

Cersei was quiet until the doors of her chambers closed behind her and Jaime, and when her hand cut through the air, he was so tired that he did not catch it quickly enough. Her nails drew blood from his cheek. It dropped onto the white sheets, and then was covered by their crimson clothes.

Between them was passion enough to kill a marriage.

* * *

Brienne rose from her bath and took the robe Lili had prepared for her. It was a delicate, pretty thing, a wedding gift from an Estermont daughter. Brienne hadn’t worn it since her wedding night. Renly had been gentle and kind to her, that night. He gracefully escaped the bedding ceremony by claiming exhaustion, and when they were safely inside his quarters, he barred the door. He helped her change, unlaced her laces himself. He picked the robe from the pile of gifts in the room. They lay in the same bed, not touching each other. He talked to her lightly as friends did, and they fell asleep slow and quiet like snowfall in the night.

Something about the way Renly had defended Brienne tonight had brought the memory of their wedding night to mind. Brienne fastened the sash of the robe at her waist and turned to Lili. “I think I will have wine with my supper after all. Arbor gold, if you can find it, and two cups with the flagon.”

Lili ducked out of the room to fetch the tray, and Brienne was left by herself. She hovered in the sitting room of her—their—quarters. It was here, in this room, that she broke fast and supped with Renly every day, but tonight it felt as if she was entertaining rather than sharing a meal. After shifting some of the vases around and rearranging the fruits on the plate in the center of the table, she took out an old unfinished embroidery from the bottom of her trunk. She sat in a high-backed chair, the hoop in her lap.

Lili came in with the tray, complete with wine. “Caught some luck, milady,” she said cheerfully. “I ran into the Queen o’ Thorns and she asked me what I was doing, and I was so scared but when she heard your name she called for a flagon filled from her personal cask. Did you know she’s born Redwyne? Said she only drinks the best, and she thinks you deserve some of that too.” Lili poured some wine into one of the cups and placed it on the table in front of Brienne.

Curious, Brienne took the cup, swished it as she had seen Renly doing so many times. It never did much for her, but now she smelled it, like freshly dug earth after a rain. She sipped it. It was bright and sweet, and when she swallowed it, it left the taste of walnuts on her tongue.

“I must thank Lady Olenna,” Brienne said. “Remind me to write a note to her, will you?”

Lili assured her that she would, bobbed on her feet, and left.

Brienne took no more of the wine. Renly would be upset if she left too little for him. She peered at her embroidery ring—a stag, of course it was—and, with a sigh, picked up a needle.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, only that when she woke her body ached all over, there was a needle stuck in her sleeve, the fire barely glowed, and the food and wine remained untouched. She drained her goblet of wine and tasted all the apologies her husband never gave.

Stretching her limbs, she walked to the bedchamber.

The pristine, empty bed welcomed her weight. It was as though she could sleep all summer, storms and all. It was as though she would never sleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: canonical abusive incestuous relationship


	2. Shamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The royal wedding, and the festivities that comes with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as ever, to Luthien and Samirant.
> 
> No content warning except for abusive incest, as has been established in the first chapter. But do tell me if there's a squick/trigger in this chapter you want us to add, for we're merely human.

As the royal wedding drew near, the city began to bulge with people, lords and labourers alike. They made their pilgrimage to the capital, some to bear witness to the nuptials and some to profit from the week’s worth of celebrations planned. There would be feasts every day as part of a seven-day long, city-wide festival where merchants and vendors from all across Westeros and even some from across the Narrow Sea would sell their wares to anyone who had the money to buy them.

Blackwater Bay was a field of colours, too many sigils to count, billowing sails and a ship or two distinctly unlike a Westerosi ship. City streets were lined left and right with merchant stalls, leaving but a narrow path in the middle for those who wished to pass. Scuffles broke out between storekeepers who took umbrage with the vendors selling their goods in front of their doors. New goldcloaks were employed, and a citizen militia was formed—to keep order, the king’s whoremonger said as he passed a purse to each recruit personally.

Excitement buzzed in the air, whispered and yelled and discussed. Everyone talked of the new king, usurper to some and hero to others. He was cruel—no, he was gallant. Had you seen the woman who was to be queen? She was the most beautiful woman in Westeros, they said. Eyes like cut emeralds and hair like spun gold. And had you heard? The feasts! The poor in Flea Bottom would eat well, they would, for the king’s cheerful brother promised to send the leftovers from the wedding feast to them.

But the event most anticipated was the tourney. All the land’s finest knights, competing to prove themselves. It would be a three-day long competition, packed to the brim with events. Coin and valuables passed hands. Never had the gamblers been so joyous.

Each event in the tourney promised a purse and a boon from King Robert and his new queen. The biggest purse was for the joust, of course, but Brienne was looking forward to the melee. Renly had given her his blessing to compete, though he would be abstaining from the competition himself. “It would not be seemly for the brother of the king to be in the field. Imagine what they would say if I won the thing!” he laughed.

It was a joke and she laughed with him; both of them knew he’d likely be one of the first competitors to go down. It was not that he _couldn’t_ fight—he had been given the same training as his brothers, survived the same wars—but battle was not in his nature.

“Besides, you are so dedicated to your training. I should like to watch _you_ fight,” he said, leaving her with a warm feeling somewhere deep in her belly. “I can do that better from the stands than I can with a sword in my hand.”

She had thrown herself into her training with even more fervour than before. Often she was one of the first in the training yard in the mornings, and last to leave in the afternoons. Her only sparring partners were her straw dummies and the squires, but the influx of knights into the capital meant there were more people to watch and mimic, and as they ignored her, for the most part, she was sure that most of her competition would likely underestimate her on the field. It did not bother her that they ignored her; she had her own motivations. She had never been very imaginative, but she was fanciful enough to picture a face on the dummies inside her mind—each one she felled was a suitor who had spurned her, each a broken heart.

It would be fun to beat them into the dust and show them what a woman could do. At night she lay in bed imagining the look on Renly’s face when she claimed her victory. She wanted nothing more than to make him proud.

There was only one in the yard who paid her any mind, other than the occasional uninspired insult from some knight or other. She wasn’t sure if she should yell and tear her hair out, or be flattered to receive such attention from _him_. He would swagger past her and always found something to comment on: her stance was wrong, her shoulders too stiff, her face too grave. Oh, he had plenty to say about her face. Once, she was ready to charge at him, nobility politics be damned, but he _beamed_ at her and said, “You’ve improved a lot, wench,” and it made her pause enough to decide to wait until she had a real sword in her hand, rather than a blunted blade.

Renly found it incredibly amusing, when she huffed and puffed about him over their supper. “Oh, I cannot wait until the tourney! You will knock him down to the dirt, won’t you, darling?”

Brienne tried hard to not allow the endearment to burrow into her heart. It instead crept to her cheek, bright and warm. She was a fool for him, and he knew it, and he loved it. “Doesn’t he usually ride in the joust instead of fighting the melee?” Being good enough to win the joust _and_ the melee, it would be unseemly if he snatched both purses, but humiliating if he lost in either. As such, most fighters in his calibre would be expected to restrict themselves to one contest.

“Cersei’s begged Robert to allow him to compete in both. Or rather, Cersei’s begged me to persuade Robert, and Robert belched and said, ‘let the fucking Kingslayer play pretend knight, if he wants’, which I took as permission to sign him up for both competitions.” Renly affected a brutish voice and squared his shoulders as he quoted Robert. It elicited a small smile from Brienne, but one thing stuck in her mind.

“Is he not a knight any more?” _As he shouldn’t be,_ she added in her mind. No true knight would slay the unarmed elderly man they were sworn to protect.

Renly waved his goblet. “Oh, he is. Robert doesn’t think that matters. For all he cares, Jaime Lannister is no knight, not since his white cloak was taken from him.”

Brienne only knew King Robert in passing, and though his prowess in battle was something she admired greatly, she had never been much impressed with his wisdom. On this matter, however, she found herself in agreement. “The vows of a knight bind one to defend the innocent. Surely—”

“Careful,” Renly said, still all cheer, though his hand stilled. “Many would not take it kindly if you started suggesting that the Mad King was innocent.”

“Jaime Lannister is a man without honour,” Brienne said instead, frustrated.

“Oh yes, no doubt. But Robert will not give an inch to anyone who shows sympathy to any Targaryen.”

That was not what she had been trying to say, and frankly she found his tendency towards flippancy a little discouraging. She’d never been good with words, he knew that, but for her husband to not even let her _explain_ what it was about the man that rubbed her the wrong way left her feeling oddly defeated. He was supposed to be the person who knew her best in all the world, and yet still he misunderstood her. If he just gave her a little more _time_ to gather her thoughts, rather than interrupting her...

But it was pointless to press the matter, especially over someone such as the Kingslayer, and she was determined not to let him or anyone else in his family distress her any more than they already had.

All she could do was focus on her training, and wait. In a sennight, she would stand against him on the melee grounds with her sword in her hand, and she would show him, and everybody else who had sneered at her over the years, just what she could do.

* * *

Jaime woke before dawn, as he was wont to do. It was a habit he had inherited partly from his time in the Kingsguard, and partly from having to sneak out of Cersei’s room before anyone rose. His sister was curled away from him—for all she liked bedding him, she couldn’t stand being held while asleep. But Jaime liked these quiet moments, before the sun rose, where he could look on her face, a face so dear to him, without worrying what others might think if he looked a moment too long.

She looked younger when she slept, more peaceful. Like this, he could pretend she was still a sweet girl, untouched by court politics. Like this, he could pretend that she wouldn’t be wedded today, and then bedded by Robert Baratheon, their brute of a king.

She was always angry when he tried to rouse her from sleep. Jaime had learned to be quiet when he snuck out, not only so no one would see him, but more than that, so Cersei’s rest would not be disturbed.

But most mornings, Cersei would not be attended by a queen’s worth of handmaids. She would not be dressed in more jewels than their family vault contained, would not be cloaked with a maiden’s cloak, would not walk into the Sept a ‘maiden’ and come out a wife. This morning he felt like he was running out of time, even though she promised she was only with Robert because Father made her. There was a finality, last night, when he spilled inside her, while she was still wearing the gown she had worn to the feast earlier, the feast that marked the start of her wedding celebrations.

Jaime ached. She was his other half, but sometimes she made him feel as if he was just a convenience to her. A body she knew. A body she could command. He’d entered the Kingsguard for her, he’d been dismissed and reinstalled as heir for her. He’d endured her temper for her.

She’d agreed to a betrothal with Robert Baratheon, and she said it was for him, but was it? Did he not agree to be Father’s heir once more so she did not have to marry for connections? Did she only want to be queen?

He wanted her, and only her. He couldn’t think of a day, a moment, he’d wanted anything else. Jaime reached for her, stroked his hand over her arm. He felt her skin prickle beneath his fingers.

Cersei opened her eyes, and immediately scowled. “What are you doing? The maids will come earlier today.”

“We have time,” he murmured, and leaned forward to press his nose into her hair.

She pulled away. “Are you daft? Leave.”

Jaime retreated. “All right.” But before he reached for his clothes, and feeling Cersei’s eyes on him, he said, “You’ll think of me tonight when that oaf fucks you.”

Cersei stilled. They had never talked about what would happen once she married Robert—they had talked of her becoming queen, but the inevitability of what it would mean remained an unspoken thing, until now. At last, she declared, “I won’t be fucking him.” He paused as he pulled his breeches back up his legs.

“What?”

She stretched her arms above her head, luxuriously, deliberately, the blankets falling away to reveal her nakedness, but he ignored it. “He will be drunk. Too drunk,” she said, on a yawn. It was a performance, a move on her cyvasse board. Often, she made him feel like one of her pieces. Often, she made him feel as if she was playing against him.

So she wouldn’t fuck Robert tonight. She still needed to. Pulling his tunic over his shoulders, Jaime asked, “You’ll need a child eventually—or you will be replaced. Tell me, how will you achieve that without suffering under him? Better to lie back and imagine it is me.”

She laughed, a dainty thing, a mocking thing. “Haven’t you noticed, dear brother? I haven’t had moon tea in weeks.”

It felt like a missed step in the dark. Something deep in his chest dropped away and fell, and he was too slow to catch it and put it back inside where it would be safe. “What?”

“My children will be yours,” she said. She stood up and pressed her naked form to him. The sensation was familiar, yet he felt as if he didn’t know her. “You will be a father.”

His head was reeling. Distantly, he felt her hand creep to the laces of his breeches. “If they find out—sister, you fool, they’ll hang us both.”

That halted her movements. She looked up at him, beautiful in her fury. She never liked it when he questioned her choices. “Only if they catch us.”

“Cersei—”

“Leave, then, if you're so afraid,” she said, lying back down on the bed, displaying herself to him, her legs open and inviting. “Leave. My maids will come soon.”

The conflict inside him became a physical thing as she presented him with his choice: to obey her words or her body. To be a coward who didn’t deserve her, or a reckless fool who would doom them both. It clenched tightly at his chest, even as his cock stirred at the sight of her, ready and wet for him as she always was. He was terrified. She was terrifying.

He didn’t move, a rabbit frozen in a field, knowing that every choice meant pain.

There was a knock on the door. “Milady, I’m here with your bathwater,” came the muffled voice from behind it.

Jaime sucked in a breath. He gathered the rest of his clothes and ducked behind the door, so when it swung open it would hide him. Cersei’s eyes met his, cold like fire, and she called out, “Come in.”

The maids came in with steaming basins, moving to the bathtub in the corner behind the silk screen. As they were pouring the water, Jaime snuck out—and it was by the Stranger’s blessing that no one saw him.

As soon as he found an empty room he ducked inside and shut the door behind him, turning to press his back into the wooden frame. His heart was pounding in his chest, painful and tight and it was hard to draw enough air into his lungs. He clutched his boots tightly, clinging to the only thing he had in hand because if he didn’t he was sure he’d shake himself apart. _You will be a father_. Her voice echoed, and it felt like a threat. A curse. _My children will be yours_.

It was some time before he felt that he could leave the room. Before he did, he pulled on his boots and laced them carefully, then made sure to set the rest of his clothes to rights. The room he’d taken refuge in was some kind of bedroom, most likely intended to be a nursery for a young child, but there was a mirror hung to the side. He checked his reflection to make sure he looked all right but was shocked, at first, to see Cersei staring back at him. But of course it wasn’t her, it was just his own reflection. All his life people had told him how alike he and his sister looked, but other than the obvious features he had never been able to see it.

Were they one soul in two bodies? Could that be true?

And if they weren’t, what would that make them?

In front of the mirror, he ran his fingers through his hair and smoothed out the wrinkles on his tunic. It was the same one he’d worn to the feast, stiff and ornate. It would not do.

He snuck out, keeping to the shadows until he reached his own room. His manservant had left a basin and a washcloth—he splashed some water on his face and changed into a plain linen shirt he normally wore to the yard. Some exercise would do him good.

The yard was empty. His eyes went to the empty corner where a battered training dummy stood. The sun was but a suggestion of light. In the dimness of dawn, the wench’s eyes would perhaps look like the sea at night.

But she was not there.

He didn’t know why his thoughts had gone to her first. Probably just because it seemed like she was _always_ here these days. Her determination and perseverance was admirable, and though he’d thought her almost delusional at first, it was clear to him now that she was likely equal to, if not better than, most of the men who trained here. He was more than a little curious about what it would be like to cross swords with her. Over the months she’d bullied her way into the yard he had seen a marked improvement in her technique, and that was honed purely through her observations of others around her, rather than any guidance from one of the masters. Unless Renly had been giving her lessons in the privacy of their rooms.

 _No_ , he thought immediately, and took up a practice blade. _The wench hasn’t crossed swords with Renly, let alone anyone else_.

He settled into a few basic drills—it was what she always did first to warm up—before he began stepping through some of the more complex maneuvers against his straw-stuffed opponent.

Soon enough he was lost in the movements, in the feel of the sword in his hand, moving through the air. He was able to forget for a moment, focussed so intently on inhabiting his weapon, that it was some time before he realised that he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought.

“I thought my wife was exaggerating when she said you lived in the practice yard, but it turns out she had the right of it,” Renly said and Jaime started and turned, holding the blunted blade out as if to ward off an attack.

Renly took a cautious step back and raised his hands in surrender. “Whoa,” he said. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

Jaime’s heart was pounding in his chest once more. He was lightheaded, but the blood coursing through his veins had him hyper-vigilant, noticing every minute detail around him, from the specks of dust in the air to the untied laces of Renly’s tunic—the same one he’d worn to the feast the night before. “Fuck off, Renly,” he said, forcing himself to loosen his grip on the sword lest he do something he’d later regret. “Go warm your wife’s bed for once.”

But Renly did not laugh, as he was wont to do. “What happens in my wife’s bed is not your business, Jaime Lannister.”

Jaime laughed. “But isn’t it your business? I’ve never seen a bride so desperately in love with her husband look so unsatisfied.”

Renly had somehow gathered enough levity to affect a grin, and he shot back, “Why, Ser Jaime. Have you an interest in my bride? Or at least my bride’s bed?”

What a ridiculous thought. He did not _want_ Brienne of fucking Tarth. But he knew her passing well enough to know this… arrangement between the two would only end in a broken heart, and it would not be Renly’s. He turned and tossed his sword away, caring not for the damage he’d do to the stupid practice blade. “She deserves better,” he said over his shoulder. “She is a good woman and you will hurt her.”

“Brienne hates you,” Renly said, that infuriating grin brandished like a blade—and perhaps it was, for him. “The most famous oathbreaker in Westeros, the man who killed his king. Stabbed him in the _back_ , like a coward. She has nothing but _contempt_ for you, Kingslayer.”

It didn’t come as a surprise. Jaime had been on the receiving end of her glares, and the thought of it sent a frisson of excitement through him. Oh, but to cross blades with her. She would not win. She wasn’t good enough. But she would give him a fight, and when he finally pinned her with her own blade knocked away, her snarl and her scowl would be a glory to watch. Grinning, Jaime gave Renly one last look and said, “She can join the rest of the court, if that pleases her. At least something in her life should give her pleasure, seeing as she has none.”

Jaime had lost his appetite for training. He didn’t bother with any niceties. There was no point. He simply turned and left Renly Baratheon standing in the yard. Perhaps he would still be there when his wife arrived for her morning training session and they could finally find their pleasure in each other’s company.

* * *

Brienne was roused early by Lili, earlier even than the hour she usually woke. The maid’s hand was gentle yet insistent as it rocked her, back and forth, and when Brienne finally opened her eyes Lili said, “Milady, come, we have much to do today.”

Brienne frowned. “Much?” It didn’t usually take her too long to dress, even when she had to wear a gown—she chose the simplest ones, for no amount of frills and ribbons would ever make her womanly.

“Lord Renly said it would be a long day and that we should pamper you,” Lili said. “He said you need to look a proper lady.” The girl grimaced in sympathy.

Brienne sat up, looking around her large, empty bed. Renly’s side remained untouched, as it had been several days this past sennight. Her husband had found himself astray at night far more often; it was a wonder he had found time to give Lili any instructions at all. “All right, then,” she said to Lili, reluctantly.

Lili led her to the bath—the girl had enough compassion to not wake Brienne before the bath was ready, at least. Brienne took off her shift and sank into the water. There were rose petals floating on the surface, and perhaps more than a few drops of rose oil stirred in. The scent invaded her nostrils, and would cling to her for the rest of the day.

She fucking hated roses.

But perhaps Renly would be more inclined to stay by her side at the feast if she smelled a little bit more like a Tyrell, so Brienne endured it. She said nothing when Lili scrubbed her pink and raw with the pumice, nor anything when the girl rolled her hair around bundles of scrap cloth. Brienne would endure, and she would not be an embarrassment to her husband.

Lili painted lacquer on Brienne’s nails, something golden made of molten beeswax. She dusted powder on Brienne’s face, white and dense, so much until she looked like a mummer’s doll. They only needed to attach strings on her arms, then they could make her dance. Her lips were painted red, crude like a whore’s. Renly had ordered other maids to come in to help with this, leaving Lili looking apologetic when they tutted and fussed over how difficult it would be to have her looking well.

Surely Renly had not intended to inflict this treatment on her. He had never been cruel to her, but this was so much more than what Brienne had been forced to endure for her own wedding and that had been bad enough.

It was some time before Brienne could finally be dressed. Lili tugged and pulled the corset laces, while another maid stuffed the bodice with cloth to make Brienne look like she had breasts. For a brief moment, Brienne thought her silhouette looked rather well, but then they brought out the gown.

Quartered yellow and black, with gold thread lining the sleeves and the collar. A polished ebony brooch in the shape of a stag was pinned to the front. Brienne was now a banner, one Renly would carry around, but she could already hear the insults of the court: _A giant bumblebee_! _Do not get too close or she shall sting you!_ Thank the gods that he could not steal her eyes and replace them with something else. She could still keep the seas of Tarth with her, could still find something of herself if she looked in the mirror.

They piled her curled hair into a complicated style, embellished it with a gold and black hairnet, put gold rings around her fingers, and at last Lady Renly Baratheon was ready.

That was when Renly came in, of course, in yesterday’s clothes. He smiled when he saw her, kissed the air around her cheek and said, “Ah, you’re ready. Wonderful, wonderful. You look remarkably well, my dear. I daresay no one at court would dare to laugh at you. Break your fast while I change for today, and then we can go to the Sept.”

In the end, it was barely ten minutes before Renly returned, dressed immaculately and looking beautiful as he always was. “Come, my lady wife. We shan’t keep the bride and groom waiting.” Chuckling as though he was amused by his own jest, he took Brienne’s hand and led her away, leaving her half-finished tea behind.

* * *

In Jaime’s opinion, the wedding, held in the Sept of Baelor, was more a demonstration of the wealth of House Lannister than it was a celebration of the might of the new King of Westeros. Everywhere he looked, he saw red and gold. Certainly there was black there in the decorations too, a symbolic melding of the two great houses, but when the banners were hung, the black only faded into the background.

It was just as Tywin Lannister had planned.

Tywin had only arrived in the city the day before, but he had been overseeing the organisation of this for months, using Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle as his surrogates to ensure that his money would be spent to highlight the glory of his house. Jaime had attended dinner with his father and siblings the night before, but had no intention of spending any more time with the man than he had to.

He hadn’t felt comfortable in his father’s presence for a long time, not since the sack of King’s Landing two years prior, when Tywin had ridden through the city, victorious at the head of the Lannister host, letting them pillage and rape and burn as they liked. When he had allowed the murder of Elia Martell and her children while protecting their killer from punishment. When he had arrived at the throne room to find Jaime covered in the blood of a king but had not noticed the tears on his son’s cheeks.

Now that Jaime was the heir to the Rock once more, with no white cloak around his shoulders, he found that he was reluctant to be left for very long alone with his father. Instead he gravitated towards Tyrion, who had arrived with father, and was surprised to discover just how much he had missed his little brother. He was a welcome distraction from the ridiculousness of the wedding, like a breath of fresh air after too long spent submerged under water.

Tyrion looked appropriately solemn, a small boy in his tailored red and gold doublet, his hair clean and shining. Many had called him ugly, including Father and Cersei. Jaime could not deny it—Tyrion certainly didn’t care enough to deny it himself, instead shrouding himself in his skin and behaving the way people expected an Imp to behave.

In that sense, Tyrion was more Lannister than any of them. But Jaime loved him anyway.

Though his serious face never wavered, Tyrion tugged on Jaime’s sleeve, and when Jaime leaned down, he whispered, “Does Father think they’ll forget she’s a Lannister?”

Just then, a hush descended over the room as the bride and groom entered, and walked to the altar. Cersei was resplendent, and the way her hair was arranged in loose waves around her head gave her the look of a lion—an incredibly beautiful male one. The gown peeking out from under her maiden’s cloak was a pale cream that gave the illusion of naked skin. The cloak itself was red and gold and studded with more jewels than anything Jaime had ever seen. He marvelled at the steady steps Cersei took under its weight, and wondered if the cloak Robert put on her would be in any way more extravagant.

When Cersei and Robert arrived at the altar, greeted by the septon, Jaime leaned down to Tyrion. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it,” Jaime agreed with a smile.

“Only a little,” Tyrion agreed with one raised eyebrow. Jaime couldn’t even begin to guess what _that_ was about.

The septon droned on and on with a long sermon about the beauty of marriage, unity of souls, the Mother and the Father. Jaime thought someone who had never been married should never be allowed to preach on such things, but then he had never seen a happy marriage, either, so perhaps it would be better if none of them entered such arrangements.

Tyrion stood on tiptoes to try and see a bit more of the room, but it was always going to be a losing battle at his height, cursed to recognise people by their knees. But then he said, “Oh gods, who is _that_ unfortunate creature? She is uglier than me!”

Lady Brienne was standing with her husband across the aisle looking positively miserable in the horrific heraldic dress. Renly’s idea, most likely. The man in question looked almost as handsome as his brother in his black tunic and seemed completely unaware that most of the room had already taken note of his wife. Being so tall, in those colours, she might as well be a flag hanging from a standard, and Renly the standard-bearer.

“That is Renly’s new wife, Lady Brienne. Originally of Tarth.”

Tyrion’s eyes blew wide. “Renly _married_? I thought you said he—”

“Yes. And yet he has a wife.” Jaime averted his eyes from the woman in question, lest she see they were gossiping about her. The idea made him uncomfortable. She was already facing the ridicule of the court and he did not like to add to it. “Robert pressured him into marrying after the incident with—”

“—and the knight of—?”

“Yes. He returned to Storm’s End after that and came back with her on his arm.” Jaime’s stomach twisted painfully, but he ignored it. He should’ve had something for breakfast.

“That’s very fortunate for her then, isn’t it? I don’t imagine she was swimming in suitors.”

Jaime opened his mouth with a fervent denial, ready to say that the wench was absolutely the one who suffered in that marriage, but Father leaned in from Tyrion’s other side and growled, low enough that only they could hear it, “Behave.”

They both quietened. Jaime watched the wench, unrecognisable if not for her height. Her ugly face was painted and abused, white and red in turns. She was a fool at court, missing only the bells and the dance. And the smile, Jaime realised, she was missing the smile too. Something glimmered in her eyes as she watched the proceedings, and then she blinked, and it vanished.

He was snapped back when he heard his sister said, loud and melodious, “With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

Jaime watched as his sweet sister, his love, now cloaked in spun gold, kissed her husband with a serene smile. He could still feel her lips on him. He could still hear her confession, her scheme. His stomach turned again. He really should have eaten something before he came here.

* * *

Brienne had never seen so much free-flowing wine. Every table had several flagons and there was a team of servants whose only job was to refill the cups, even after the guests started spilling their wine by sloshing or tipping their cups over, their faces redder and redder still.

For her own part, she had nursed her cup most of the night, declining the many, _many_ offers from servants to replenish her drink. At one point she asked a servant if they could bring her some fresh water, instead, but the servant looked so utterly confused at her request she quickly muttered a _nevermind_ and instead took only small sips from her glass of Arbor Gold.

She’d never liked drinking wine much, for it made her dizzy and unsteady on her feet, and she hated the way it left her with a roiling stomach and aching head the next day. And she wanted to wake refreshed tomorrow, for that was when the tourney would begin. The melee would not start until the second day, but it would be her first chance to properly scout out her competition and her last opportunity to train with that information in mind.

Her husband had no such compunctions. He drank and drank, being much more experienced in holding his liquor and more predisposed to merriment, or perhaps he thought the more he drank, the more he could blur the sight of his hideous wife. The bard was now singing about a king most mighty and a queen most lovely, and Renly leaned in and said, “Now, if it had been about us, my dear, it would be a lady most gallant and a lord most beloved, and _that_ would be a more interesting song, would it not?” His voice carried, and the lords and ladies around them, all Stormlander, all aware of his ‘vice’, tittered nervously.

“Renly,” Brienne warned, her voice low as she tried to right him in his seat, for he kept falling sideways onto Lord Buckler’s shoulder.

“What is it, my love?” he asked, but his eyes strayed to the other side of the tent, where the lords and ladies of the Reach were sitting.

“You’re embarrassing us all,” she said, pushing a plate of sliced pears in front of him. She’d much rather he made chewing sounds, because at least he couldn’t be talking and chewing at the same time. He was too well-mannered for that, even if he was drunk.

He took her bait. Before popping a slice in his mouth, he said, “You are the best wife I could ask for.”

She was saved from the scream creeping up her throat by a change in the music. It was now a slow ballad, a recent, popular tune about two beautiful young lovers, ripped apart by a world too cruel.

King Robert extended his hand to the newly crowned Queen Cersei, and they spun onto the dance floor, the queen’s body nearly slamming into the king’s as he tugged her arm a little too roughly. Surprise and anger flickered across her face, so quickly Brienne could not be certain if she truly saw it, as the queen’s features settled into a placid smile. Like this, she looked like a proper bride, beautiful, happy. Theirs was not a love match, but it was a good match nonetheless. She was as beautiful as he was. They looked formidable together.

They said a land only prospered if the king and queen loved each other well. Brienne was glad that she was no queen.

As the King’s brother, Renly would be expected to dance. Stannis had found himself a partner in Selyse Florent, a tall homely woman with a thin mustache and a stern composure. Even they looked well-matched, if a little cold. Brienne turned to her own husband, but Renly was already standing, and he had not offered his hand to her.

No, Renly walked across to the Tyrells, and though his eyes were on Ser Loras, he extended his hand to Lady Margaery.

Brienne thought, faintly, that Lili had laced her bodice a little too tightly, for it was difficult to breathe after a meal.

Lady Margaery’s gown was white silk with gilded roses covering the bodice. She looked beautiful, if young, blushing prettily the way girls did when receiving the attention of a beautiful man. Renly treated the girl gently, making her laugh, teasing her as he would tease a sister. He had treated Brienne with the same care, before they had sealed their match and said their vows. A paltry thing, compared to the burning desire of a lover, but more than any suitor had ever bestowed upon her.

 _I am his and he is mine_.

She took a sip of her wine. It burned the back of her throat a little, but she did not care. It worked for everyone else, why not her too?

It was then she heard a polite coughing from behind, and then a gentle touch at her elbow. “Lady Baratheon, may I have this dance?”

She turned, but had to look down, even further than she usually did, and she felt her cheeks bloom red with shame when she saw Tyrion Lannister standing there with his hand outstretched.

“I—”

“I know we have not been properly introduced,” he said, with a confidence strong enough to overcome the squeak in his voice. “And I know I might be a little young for your taste, but I promise I have learned from the best dance instructors in Westeros.”

It took quite a while for Brienne to find her voice, during which Tyrion waited patiently, but at last she managed, “I’m afraid I don’t have such tutelage, my lord, and I would surely step on your toes.”

Tyrion looked at her as though she had passed some sort of test, in his mind. “I think you mean you would step on _me_ , but do you want to hear what my dance instructors told me?”

Brienne knew she was walking into a trap, the gilded snare of Tyrion’s wit, but she asked regardless, “What did they say?”

“It would be impossible to step on me if my partner carries me in her arms,” he said, grinning like a child absconding with stolen sweets.

It was like a war was waging within her chest. She wanted to smile and laugh with him, because truly the image he’d painted for her was absurd and funny, but that was tempered by the mortifying knowledge that that was how everyone saw her: absurd and funny. Yet she could not, not, now, find a way to reject him that would be polite.

She needn’t have worried, for the young lord’s face settled into a subdued sort of smile, and he said, “Or perhaps you would prefer to take in the air with me, my lady? I have not been here long enough to see the gardens.”

Fresh air _would_ be welcome. Brienne rested her fingers lightly in his as she stood from her chair—”My goodness, you’re more enormous than I estimated. It’s a good thing we’re not dancing after all, I’d drown in your skirts. You are even taller than my brother, I think!”—and let her arms swing at her sides as she walked, with deliberate slowness, to the gardens.

* * *

Jaime watched as Tyrion escorted Lady Brienne to the terrace, away from the dancing couples. His brother had been next to him and had seen the unguarded look of heartbreak on her face when Renly had slighted her and invited Margaery Tyrell to dance. No doubt, too, Tyrion had seen the look on _Jaime’s_ face before he had made the wise decision to rescue the lady lest Jaime let the wine he’d drunk go too much to his head and have him doing things he shouldn’t.

Because she wasn’t his problem. At all. She was Renly Baratheon’s problem, and it was clear to Jaime, at least, that Renly was likely beginning to regret his rash marriage to the lady. He’d probably thought it would solve all his problems, that she was large enough to grant him the cover he needed to continue his dalliances with Loras. As though the entire court didn’t know where the knight of flowers sheathed his sword each night.

Jaime’s wine-glass was empty, but when a servant made to refill it he covered the top with his hand. He’d had entirely too much already and it wasn’t sitting well within him. Besides, he did not like the way that everyone around him was already well on their way to being drunk and they were barely through the second course of the feast.

Already the wine had everyone acting out in ways they likely wouldn't sober. Littlefinger was eyeing Jon Arryn’s new Tully wife openly. Stannis seemed to be _actively_ enjoying himself. Even Cersei was dancing with Robert; she had been adamant about not wanting to touch the man, but perhaps she would let him tonight after all.

In fact earlier Jaime had overheard a conversation between Robert and his youngest brother, though to call it a conversation was a little generous. Robert had said gruffly, “I hear you’re letting her compete in my tourney.”

Renly had replied with some kind of cheerfully vapid affirmative, though much more quietly than his brother so Jaime had not caught the exact words.

But whatever it was he’d said didn’t please the king. “For fuck’s sakes Renly, when are you going to get a babe on her and send her back to Storm’s End?”

Again, whatever it was Renly said in reply, Jaime could not hear it, but it was certainly a little less cheerful.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Robert said, an ugly sneer twisting his features. “You’re an embarrassment. So’s she.”

Jaime could not hear anything else, but Renly seemed to snap, a little, his brows knotting in a brief imitation of his brothers’, and with a bow and a loud, “Your Grace,” Renly turned to find his wife at their table. Not an hour later, the man was well and truly drunk.

So perhaps, when Renly had turned away from his own wife, no doubt dressed like a fool on his instructions, Jaime had contemplated something equally outrageous. He was lucky his brother was as clever as he was small.

It gave Jaime a precious minute to reconsider his thoughts _and_ Tyrion’s actions, and Jaime knew that despite her inclinations, running away with her tail tucked between her legs would not be the best thing to do for her reputation. No, there was only one course of action that would properly elevate her in the eyes of the gentry in attendance.

Jaime chased after his brother and the wench, who were walking away from the tent, and when they both looked at him in astonishment, he exchanged a glance with Tyrion.

_Please._

_All yours, Brother._

And so Jaime turned to Lady Brienne and extended her hand. “My Lady, may I have this dance?”

To say that she looked confused was an understatement, but she was certainly no match for two Lannister brothers united behind a common cause. She briefly looked at Tyrion—what a ridiculous sight the two of them made, like a giant with her pet dwarf—but the boy merely inclined his head towards Jaime.

“I don’t—” Brienne began, but Tyrion cut in.

“If it helps, my lady, my brother is much more palatable to the eyes of the court than myself.”

“I do not _care_ about that,” she said, vehemently.

Tyrion looked astonished. To Jaime, he asked, “What in the Seven Hells have you done to this woman? I’ve never seen one so intent on escaping your company.”

Jaime rolled his eyes and stepped forward to take Brienne gently, but insistently, by the elbow. Against all good sense, apparently, she followed him, though she did chance a glance over her shoulder to where Tyrion still stood by the terrace. “It is just once dance,” he mumbled. “I promise I will do nothing untoward.”

“You’ve been everything but _proper_ to me for the length of our acquaintance,” Brienne grumbled, though she still followed him.

“Trust me, I mean not to shame you. On the contrary, escaping the feast with a boy as much an outcast as yourself would not be… ideal.”

“You would lecture me on ideals?”

He couldn’t help but scoff at that. “I would never presume to lecture someone such as you on propriety.” He could hear the sarcasm in his tone, though he was not sure why he had fallen back on levity. He knew it made him look unfeeling, and he wasn’t. He wasn’t unfeeling at all.

She didn’t respond, but they had reached the space cleared in the middle of the tents where the bards played and couples danced. She still looked unhappy, but when he put his hand on her waist she did not remove it, though he knew she could if that was what she wanted. Instead she placed her hand on his shoulder and allowed him to take her other hand and followed his lead.

“They’re all watching us,” she murmured and ducked her head. It felt absurd to be looking down on her when he had grown so used to looking up.

“That’s the whole point, wench.” He used the word as a deliberate jab, a clumsy attempt to distract her from the attention.

All it did was make her flush more, as it always did, her frustration and dislike of the nickname clear to read when he was close enough to count the freckles on her nose—not even the thick white powder could conceal such a constellation.

He pulled her a little closer so they would not collide with another dancing couple, and her chest pressed up against his own. It did not feel as he had expected.

Brienne chanced a glance at her husband and the Tyrell girl; even under the rouge and powder he could see her flush growing ever deeper. Brienne bent lower, nearly folding her body inwards as Renly and the girl twirled past them. Jaime refused to be shamed, however, instead throwing a smile at Margaery, who watched them with open curiosity.

“Chin up,” he instructed. “Be proud. You are dancing with the richest heir in all the land, and the handsomest besides.”

She muttered something, more grumble than words, but it sounded to him like _I am too tall._

“You _are_ about as tall as an average ship mast, yes. Fortunately, height is not the making of a man—” he nodded to where they had left Tyrion standing at the side “—why should it be the making of a woman?”

That, at last, drew a smile from her. “Your brother is a charming young man.”

Jaime snorted. “He’s a brat who thinks he’s cleverer than everyone else. Most times, he is, but we try not to encourage him too much.”

“Yes, we really would not want him to turn out like you,” she said, and _ah._ There she was, that incorrigible wench who had insulted him so many times before.

Today, though, her insult was at best a tease, and so he said, “Why, Lady Brienne. Were you making a joke?”

She flushed again. “I merely mean that your brother is more amiable than you are.”

Jaime twirled her, and though the wench showed surprise, she followed the movement with enough grace. When she spun back into his arms, he said, “Now, watch them. They think you’ve seduced me, and they think your husband is a fool.”

“My husband is no fool,” she said, the scorn returning to her voice. Ah, well. They could only have fun for so long.

He let the music fill the air between them for a moment while he considered how to proceed. He could warn her. She had not been at court long, she did not know how dangerous even the most innocent looking lords or ladies could be, inflicting lasting, poisonous wounds that killed ever so slowly, agonisingly, painfully.

But the warning was not like to be received well, no matter his intentions. “As you say,” he conceded, biting back all the words. “You know him better than I. After all, he is your husband.”

The song ended. All around, people politely applauded. To their right, Renly bowed deeply to Lady Tyrell, who giggled in the childish, innocent way of young women. Jaime wondered whether Brienne had ever laughed like that. She certainly did not seem inclined to laugh now, though her face was inscrutable beyond that.

Eventually, she said, “Thank you, Lord Lannister, for the dance.” Something in her throat moved up and down, as if she was swallowing thoughts of her own so that they did not cloud the air between them.

The musicians took up their instruments once more and began to play a lively version of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_. “We could go another round, if you like,” he offered, nodding at the many couples around them who had remained paired in anticipation. “They are playing our song. I am, of course, the maiden fair.”

He won no reactions from her, only a gentle rejection with the shake of her head. “It would be indecorous if I were to dance with you twice.”

It twinged a little, to be turned down in such a way, no matter how kindly the delivery. “Ah, of course. The woman who trains with a sword must uphold decorum at all times.” No matter, Jaime thought. He would get that dance eventually, if she stood long enough on the melee field. The music would be better, too.

Her look this time was withering. And though he expected a verbal riposte, she stepped back and said instead, “I think I will make my excuses and retire early.” She looked at her husband, who was now dancing with Cersei.

Jaime could not stand this revelry, the smiles he had to force. “Allow me to walk you,” he offered.

“I do not think that would be proper, either,” she said, “but thank you.”

He looked up at her. Her face was still, even. As though her husband had never shamed her. “Then good night, Lady Brienne. I will meet you at the melee.”

“I look forward to it,” she said, curtseying.

When she left, it occured to Jaime, much to his surprise, that he, too, was looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: the tourney.


	3. Bruised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tourney begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you to Luthien and Samirant.
> 
> cw: canon typical violence, emesis

There was a new gown on Renly’s side of the bed. Brienne regarded it with caution, as though it might bite at her. When Lili came in with a basin of water and washcloth, Brienne asked, “What is that?”

“The Queen’s men came and delivered it, milady,” Lili said cheerfully. “There’s a note, there.” She plucked the note pinned to the collar of the dress and offered it to Brienne.

The note was sealed with a Lannister sigil stamped on red wax. Brienne broke the seal.

_Goodsister, you were an adept dancer yesterday evening—I do believe you have enraptured my brother with your grace. This dress is my own, and I have treasured it much. I gift it to you, and hope you may accept me as your sister. Do wear it today. I should like to see you in it._

The gown was pink, and though Cersei Lannister was a tall woman, entirely too small for Brienne.

Lili lifted the dress up and frowned, clearly having come to the same conclusion as Brienne: it would not fit. “I could let out the seams, milady,” she said, as she inspected the stitching carefully. She had a critical eye for this sort of thing, and a small part of Brienne envied Lili’s easy way with these kinds of womanly arts.

But even she could see that letting out the seams would not change the colour, nor the out-of-fashion cut, but between the choices of offending her new goodsister and queen and offending the rest of the court with her attire, well. Brienne barely had any choice to begin with.

It was all right. She offended them with her ugliness every single day, no matter what she wore. What was one more dress?

Letting out the seams, however, took a long time. It was just as well that today was just the archery contest, the least eventful of the three-day tourney. Somewhere between the early morning and noon, Lili had summoned two other girls, and the three of them attacked the dress from three different directions. Even then, it was too small still, and they ended up sewing Brienne into the gown, pinning the open edges of fabric into Brienne’s chemise.

In the end, Brienne arrived late—not in a fashionable manner—at lunch. She could barely hunch her back in this dress, or move her shoulders at all, so tightly was it sewn onto her. Her stiff, clumsy movements had attracted many eyes, and she felt their judgement as she carefully lowered herself to the seat next to Renly.

“My dear, there you are. You look fetching today. New gown?”

He smiled at her but it brought her no comfort this time— he was not an ally for her now. Perhaps if he had come home last night then he would have been able to think of some other way of avoiding giving offence that would have left her able to breathe and move her arms without fear of bursting the seams of the gown. So she gave him no reply.

“Sister!” came the honeyed voice of Cersei Baratheon, and if Brienne had been able to move it would’ve sent a shiver down her spine. “The gown looks lovely on you. The colour does bring your lovely skin out in a most fascinating way. Doesn’t it, my love?” Cersei asked, turning to an indifferent Robert.

Brienne had never been subjected to Robert’s lustful gazes. The man seemed to never run empty of those, throwing one to any young maiden—except Brienne, because Brienne never counted in the eyes of such men. This time, Robert smiled at her, but she knew enough that it was not of desire or appreciation.

She was both relieved and disappointed.

“You look well, Lady Brienne,” Robert said, at length. “You’ve got a mother’s look about you. It’s about time, eh?”

Renly’s hand suddenly covered Brienne’s own, but something about the tense lines of his forearm told Brienne that she was not the one being restrained. With a never-wavering smile, Renly said, “Now, then, Brother, what did I tell you about delicate subjects at the dining table?”

“Delicate? Look at her, Renly. She’s as delicate as a boar. Twice as strong, too. What’s the point of wasting her youth like this? She should be in Storm’s End, breeding you a dozen babes.”

Brienne felt like she couldn’t breathe—and it had nothing to do with the dress. Renly’s hand was the only anchor she felt as she forced a smile through her furious blush. “I quite like King’s Landing, Your Grace.”

“See? She likes it here! She _will_ fight in the melee, you know, and she might even win,” Renly said, proudly.

“Are you going to wear Tarth colours, Lady Brienne?” Ser Jaime asked from the Queen’s other side. Brienne had nearly forgotten that he was there, but now he was all she could see, clad in a red so deep it could almost be black, a stark contrast to his bright colouring. He _was_ the maiden fair, while she was the bear in a dress.

Brienne wrenched her eyes away from him, and her hand from under Renly’s. She reached for a bun and sliced it open with her knife, only so she could have something to do with her hands. She wished nothing else but to wear Tarth colours, but she knew she would have to wear the yellow and black of House Baratheon.

“She will of course wear Baratheon colours,” Renly said before Brienne had a chance to reply. “She will be the only Baratheon competing, after all, and we must be represented on the field.”

“A pity,” Ser Jaime said. “Blue would suit you better.”

“Tarth’s colours are blue _and_ pink,” Brienne said, knowing her face was surely rivalling her dress in displaying the colour.

“Well, pink does not look terrible on you, I think. Though you would be well-served by a proper seamstress.” He was openly grinning at her, roguish and infuriatingly handsome. She should bash that face with her shield, tomorrow.

“Jaime,” the queen chided, lightly hitting her brother’s arm. “Leave the poor woman alone. Sister, he is likely still thinking of your dance yesterday at my wedding. You two looked thick as thieves together. Whatever were you talking of to have him so enraptured? I find it difficult to get his attention without his sword in my hand.”

The man in question had been taking a long drink from his own wine glass but suddenly began to cough, roughly and violently, spraying the table in front of him with wine spittle. 

“Jaime!” Cersei cried, pushing her chair back to avoid the mess. Some of it had got on her dress and a part of Brienne wished she’d been the one in the line of fire; at least that way she would’ve had an excuse to go and change out of this hideous dress. Instead she passed him a napkin so that he could wipe his face.

“Thank you,” he said, stifling another cough into the cloth.

“Must I call the maester?” Lord Stannis asked. His brow was knitted in what could either be concern or distaste. It was difficult to say, with him.

It was Renly who answered. “No need,” he said, “I think our young lord is merely a little shocked that Her Grace told us all of their childhood quarrels. How often did you take his sword from him to gain his attention, when you were young?”

Cersei grinned. Like this, she looked almost the same as her brother, no less deadly though she was clothed in silk and jewels rather than sword belt and armour. “All the time. He would protest so much, but he learned to listen to me eventually. Didn’t you, brother?”

The look between the twins was hefty with the weight of their shared history. An entire, silent conversation took place in the flash of identical emerald eyes before finally Jaime looked away. The expression on his face was inscrutable, but Cersei looked like the cat who’d gotten the cream. Brienne might not speak the language of the twins, but it was clear who the winner was here.

Until— “So what did it mean when you dressed in my clothes so that you could take my place in the training yard?” Jaime asked.

Cersei’s face fell. “Father never allowed me that training. The Rock was not as loose as Tarth, in such matters. Perhaps that was for the better.” She rose from her seat. “You must excuse me, my love,” she said to Robert. “I must change out of this gown before the next round of shooting begins. My lords. Sister.”

She shot Brienne one last look, barely concealing her sneer. Had that been there the whole time? Brienne suspected, of course. She was used to such thin pleasantry where only disgust lay under the amiable surface, but the queen was an adept player at this game and it wasn’t so apparent until now.

Still, it was a bit of a shock to Brienne that she was able to recognise Cersei’s prevarication. Perhaps her time here in King’s Landing had given her _some_ skill in the ways of the court. Without thinking, Brienne glanced at Ser Jaime, not quite sure what she hoped to find on his face. He had left her uneasy the previous day for a completely different reason than his sister had—it hadn’t occurred to her until she was lying in bed alone that night that, from a certain angle, he had done her a service by insisting on a dance. Renly’s slight of her had passed by practically unnoticed by most of the other guests, too distracted by Jaime’s behaviour to comment much on the King’s brother. Drunk as the guests were, the stories Brienne had heard from her maids all talked about how the gallant Ser Jaime had stolen Lord Renly’s ugly bride—not that the lord had abandoned her first.

Now he looked pale, still recovering from his little mishap moments before, but there was steel there too. Something hard and deadly beneath the surface that frightened her, perhaps even more so than his sister. It all disappeared the moment that he realised he was being watched; his face relaxed, that easy smile back on his face. “I think my sister must be tired, Robert,” he said. “Do try to let her get _some_ rest at night. When she is sleep-deprived she is much less pleasant than the woman you married yesterday in the sept. Just a little brotherly advice.”

“Aye, I’ll certainly take advice from a man who’s stuck his sword in more kings than he’s stuck his cock in a woman.” Robert’s face was flushed from the wine. “Don’t you worry about your sister. She’ll be just fine as my wife.”

A sneer passed over Ser Jaime’s features, so similar to his sister’s. Here, too, was something Brienne did not understand, and with her own brother gone, she would never understand. Would Galladon have defended her from Renly’s humiliating dismissiveness, like Ser Jaime defended his twin from her husband?

As though he had heard himself in her thoughts, Renly said something cheerful and meaningless. It did the job, breaking the tension between Ser Jaime and King Robert. There was a ripple of chuckles—even Lord Stannis smiled a little indulgently, though it fell when he noticed Brienne’s gaze on him. Renly continued with a different story, something about the feast yesterday and a piece of gossip he had heard from Lady Margaery.

Brienne looked down at the crushed bread roll in her hand. With deliberate movements she reached for the closest dish of preserves, deep orange and unidentifiable, and took a generous dollop to smear on her bread. She ate her lunch perfunctorily, the rich offerings sand in her mouth, and let her husband do the entertaining for the rest of the meal. He was good for that, if nothing else, and she was practised enough to smile and nod in all the appropriate places as he told tall tales upon tall tales.

All of this, the song and dance of court society, it did not matter. She was elsewhere. In her mind she stood tall and fearsome in the melee, armour gleaming, sword in hand. There, it mattered not if she was beautiful or ugly, clever or witless. There, she needed no one.

There she would win.

* * *

The bright summer sun was shining on his face, warming the heavy metal of his armour just to the point of discomfort, but Jaime couldn’t find it in himself to care. This was where he belonged: outside, with a sword in his hand and the fight in his heart. Around him his squires fidgeted with the various straps and buckles that held it all together, but he paid them no mind. He could not afford to lose his head, for the melee would soon take place.

Tyrion approached, carrying a goblet of wine he had no doubt stolen from a feast table when Father wasn’t looking. He looked Jaime up and down with squinting, mismatched eyes. “Did you rob an oil merchant or are you planning to knock your opponents out by glinting at them?”

“Is there something you want, brother? I am somewhat busy at the moment,” Jaime said, but he looked down at his brother with a smile. It had been some time since he’d competed in a tourney and even longer since Tyrion had been around to watch.

“I bring a message. Father said not to bother with anyone beneath you, which I suppose was his way of saying that he doesn’t want you to fight our Lady Baratheon.”

“Tell Father he doesn’t know how melees work.” Jaime knew that the melee, to Tywin, was simply men doing their level best to bash each other into the dust. He had no appreciation for the subtleties of strategy the contest required, despite the many times Jaime had tried to explain. Tourneys never held much of interest for Father. Jaime suspected he saw them as a waste of money that could be better spent elsewhere, which might explain why there were never many held in and around Lannisport. _Melees aren’t real battles,_ he often said. The joust and the shooting, being structured activities, held a little more value, though to him it was still mere showmanship.

Jaime rejoiced when he thought of Father’s sure fury later when he fought among the rabble. It didn’t compare at all to the raw feeling of his blood pumping, his chest pounding, as he faced off against three, four, five opponents, but it wasn’t nothing.

“I am just the messenger, brother,” said Tyrion with the kind of cheeky, infuriating smile that Jaime was familiar enough with. It was Tyrion’s _I know a secret_ smile. _A juicy secret_. He clearly wanted Jaime to press him about it, and for a moment he considered it. But there was little enough time before Jaime was to take the field and he really didn’t want or need any further distraction. Tyrion continued on, “Now, my own message: if you want to woo the Lady Baratheon so much, perhaps it would be easier if there weren’t metal plates between you two.”

This was not the first time someone had implied that Jaime wanted Brienne. He suspected it wouldn’t be the last, and just thinking of it exhausted him. “How many times do I have to tell you, I do not—”

“Like her, yes, you’ve said. Someone should paint you when you’re looking at her. I am not judging you for this—the poor woman clearly finds no joy in her husband—but do exercise some caution, will you?” Tyrion swished the wine in his goblet as though he knew what he was doing—as though he shouldn’t be drinking watered wine right now. “I walked by her, you know. She’s not as shiny as you, and has the look of someone who’s going to kill a man. You’d think Renly would commission new armour for her. The one she’s wearing probably still has blood on it.”

Jaime’s codpiece felt unreasonably tight. Which squire did the straps on that? He should get it fixed. He shifted a little on his feet. That brought no relief. 

A horn sounded from a little way off in the direction of the melee grounds. It was a warning call for all competitors. _Five minutes_. He needed to hurry up. One of his many squires came forward bearing his sword and sword belt. Jaime raised his arms and Tyrion stepped back to give the boy room to put it on. It was the last thing he needed before he would make his way to the field. 

“No shield?” Tyrion asked, frowning a little.

Jaime shook his head. “Too cumbersome. It’s a full field and it is better to be fast than well protected against most of them.”

“What about Lady Brienne?” Tyrion’s eyebrow was arched high on his forehead and when Jaime sent him a withering look in response to his question he simply sipped his wine and added, “Do you wish to be well protected from her? Or do you hope that she will run you through with _her_ sword.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Everyone will have blunted blades. It’s a tourney.”

Tyrion’s laughter wasn’t a surprise, but the slightly mocking lilt to it was. He was the only one who _hadn’t_ called Jaime stupid at one time or another, but that laugh... When he was able to compose himself, Tyrion said, “Not at all what I meant, brother, but innocence looks well on you.”

Jaime wanted to needle Tyrion about what he could possibly have meant, but there was no time. He was rushed by his squires, who had received express orders to bring him to the melee court. It was a wide field, surrounded by wooden stands where the lords and ladies watched from. Robert sat tall in the middle of the highest stand, in full armour as though he wanted to remind them that it was by his mercy he did not join the competition. Next to him was Cersei, sweet Cersei, tall and crowned. Her eyes met Jaime’s briefly, and she tilted her head ever so slightly to Jaime’s left.

Jaime followed it, and he saw the wench.

He would never have known it was her, with the helmet covering her head, if not for the Baratheon colours and the battered armour with rust in its joints. Tyrion was wrong. There was no blood. Jaime felt an odd swoop of disappointment, but he ignored it in lieu of observing his opponent further.

Nothing she carried was new, except for the tall kite shield, freshly painted in yellow, a black stag in the middle. As though she could sense him, she turned—and he saw her eyes, shadowed by her open visor, and then nothing as she quickly snapped it down.

The rest of the field was fairly unremarkable. Mostly career tourney knights he had faced before, though not a one with much talent to his name. The Mountain stood on the right hand side of the field, a head taller than the next tallest competitor and twice as wide. 

Loras Tyrell was there too, standing opposite him, as shiny and brilliant in silver as Jaime was in gold. His shield bore the green and yellow of House Tyrell. Jaime was certain that a fortune’s worth of golden dragons were being exchanged in the stands over whether it would be him or Loras standing at the end. 

No doubt Tyrion had placed a bet or two on the outcome, though if he had asked, Jaime would’ve cautioned him against the risk: the melee was an unpredictable field. The most skilful knight on the field could easily be overwhelmed by three or four mediocre ones in an opportunistic alliance that would last just long enough for the superior challenger to be defeated before they would turn on each other. Weapon choice could complicate matters further—Jaime could be certain to defeat anyone fighting with a sword, but a sword against a mace or a flail was another set of skills entirely. He’d still beat them, of course, but if the opponent had any talent with the weapon it would be all the more challenging.

All of this was in his head, his thoughts narrowing down to the impending fight as he sized up the field. Was the lady aware she should avoid the initial crush and pick off the stragglers instead? Was that why she chose to stand near the edge, rather than in the middle as more seasoned knights did? Did she know to use her shield as a ram to disable her opponents? She had spent the last several months training alongside these men, but had anyone else other than Jaime recognised that she grimaced when she lunged—it quite gave the game away and he would not like to see her cut down because of such a little thing.

Because whether the punters in the stands recognised it or not, she was certainly the dark horse contender. The lesser knights would think her an easy target and would be taken down quickly, which would bring her to the attention of those with more skill. And then there would be the men who would attack her simply because she had the temerity to be here on the field. Jaime had heard more than one muttering as such when news had spread that she had added her name to the lists.

It was not Jaime’s place to wonder such things, so he shook it off. If the wench was worth fighting, as he had long suspected, he would eventually cross swords with her. If not, she would fall, and perhaps her louse of a husband would pay enough attention to call for a squire to rescue her from being trampled. The melee was no real battle, but every so often someone would fall and die under the feet of his competitors. It would be a shame if the first lady to fight in a melee fell so gruesomely.

From his place in the stands above King Robert stood and stepped towards the rail. The crowd began to cheer and yell, the sound of it almost deafening to Jaime where he stood in the middle of it all. Robert basked in it for a few moments, hands raised aloft, turning this way and that to look upon his subjects. Finally he lowered his hands and the crowd took their seats once more, quieting somewhat as he did, and he used his naturally booming voice to say, “Welcome, Lords, Ladies, and”—his mouth twisted—“ _honoured_ knights to the bloody melee! If all goes well, if our knights are worth the sword on which they were sworn,the sand will be soaked with blood and shit by the time this thing is done.”

The bloodthirsty crowd roared at that, predictable as ever, as if any one of them wouldn’t shit themselves in fear if they found themselves facing off against ‘knights’ such as The Mountain.

Robert waited until the noise settled down some more before he continued on, “Back in the day, I would’ve been down there with the bastards and I would’ve knocked them all into the dust. Today, I am a newlywed and I have been doing battle of a different sort. My sword is quite used up, and as such you are spared my warhammer.”

Raucous laughter bubbled and Jaime could not help but look to his sister. Though she still smiled, her lips were tight and even he could see no mirth had reached _her_ eyes. Robert reached over and clapped her roughly on the shoulder. She leaned away from his touch, just a little—not enough for anyone to notice but Jaime.

Blood bubbled in Jaime’s veins. Two nights they had been wedded. Two nights, and already Cersei’s mask was cracking. He wondered what had happened in the royal bedchambers. He hated to think of it, hated to envisage Cersei under the brutish bulk of Robert. Would that the man himself fought today—Jaime would crush him, king or not.

Robert said some other words—pithy things, promises of a hefty purse, fame, glory—before gesturing to the herald, who blew the horn.

The melee had begun.

Jaime had not placed himself precisely in the center, though he did not stand near the edge, either. Almost immediately, four men descended on him from all sides, a craven alliance. Not one among them had much skill to his name and it was the work of a moment to dispatch them. He saved the most talented for last so that he could drag out the lesson a little and give the crowd the show they’d paid for. Within a few heartbeats the man had yielded, crawling away from Jaime’s blade on hands and knees with a badly broken nose for his troubles.

Jaime looked around the melee field. There, twenty feet or so away, The Mountain mowed through lesser men. On the opposite side the wench held her own against the few craven knights who no doubt thought she would be an easy mark. He had only spared those two glances before an idiot of a knight announced his sneak attack with a battlecry; sufficiently warned, Jaime turned and parried the slash.

“Did you learn nothing about tactical advantage…” Jaime trailed away, rifling his memory for the right house name, “Ambrose?” He pushed back hard, and Ambrose stumbled, though he still did not fall.

“I’ve got honour enough to face my opponent, Ki—Ser Jaime,” Ambrose spat.

“And not enough courage to name me as I am.” Jaime bullied through the weak guard, and when Ambrose raised his blade to parry Jaime’s attack, he slipped his leg between them and kneed Ambrose in the gut. His armour was cheaply made, boiled leather yielding under Jaime’s greaves, and with a grunt the man fell to the dirt. “See how much honour had served you,” Jaime said, pointing his sword to Ambrose’s throat. “Yield.”

Ambrose’s throat bobbed and the man yielded. Jaime turned away, but then he felt Ambrose’s blade hitting his back, scuffing his armour.

Jaime laughed, now. He could not hold it back. “Well done! It turns out you _can_ learn,” he said as he advanced, crowding Ambrose to the edge of the field, pushing and jabbing and slashing. Jaime was faster than Ambrose, stronger too, the man only keeping up his defence with damned pride and luck.

Finally, when he saw fear in the other man’s eyes, he ended the bout by slamming his pommel through Ambrose’s helmet, crumpling it and crushing his front teeth, before kicking him to the dirt. The man wheezed. Jaime turned back to the crowd, certain, this time, that Ambrose would not try his dirty trick a second time.

That display was enough to ward careless attackers away, as another two men hovered with uncertainty, facing Jaime, before they, too, were knocked down by Loras Tyrell and his shining, rose-engraved armour. The boy spared Jaime a glance—nothing more but a scathing look—before stepping away, knocking down three men as he strode towards where Brienne was fighting—beating—a Connington man.

Jaime didn’t think. He charged, inadvertently stepping on one of the men Loras had knocked down. The man howled. Loras, alerted, turned with his blade raised, just in time to meet Jaime’s own.

But the boy was more trim, his sword a lighter thing than Jaime’s longsword, and his knees buckled under the weight of Jaime’s slash. Their swords met, and met again, each a loud, jarring hiss. From the slit in his visor, Loras’ eyes glared at Jaime. Jaime sneered, and when Loras was busy parrying his sword, backhanded the helmet away with his free hand.

The helmet clattered to the ground. Jaime could hear the collective gasp of the audience. Loras _was_ very pretty, even prettier than his young sister.

“Fuck off, Kingslayer,” Loras said, spitting a bloody gob into the dust. Somewhere along the way he had lost his shield and he wiped his mouth with his free hand. “I’ll be happy to beat you later.”

“Now, now,” Jaime said, grinning from behind his own helmet, “is that how you speak to your betters?” And then, giving Loras no more opportunity to answer, Jaime charged and tackled him to the ground. He struck Loras’ abdomen, just under his breastplate, with the pommel of his sword. The boy was red-faced, his hair dirt-smeared. Jaime wanted to laugh. Not so pretty any more.

“This isn’t your fight,” Loras grunted, grappling with Jaime’s left pauldron as his feet found purchase on the ground so that he could kick up with his legs and push Jaime off of him.

The crowd roared, the noise a pummelling wave that was disproportionate to Loras’s squirming escape. Behind him he heard The Mountain roar, followed by a blood-curdling scream from some man and the sickening crunch of broken bones.

Jaime did not have time to look. Loras was back on his feet now, sword in hand with a truly poisonous look on his face. “Don’t you think I haven’t seen the way you look at her?” Loras said with a sneer. “It’s pathetic.”

“Why does everyone say that?” Jaime asked. He stood his ground. It would be better if he taunted Loras until _he_ cracked, and mayhaps he would make a mistake. Give him an opening. If Jaime charged, the boy would resort to his excellent training, and it would only tire him further. “I’m saving you from her, you know. She’s double your size, she’d have you folded over her blade in seconds.”

Loras readjusted his grip on his sword. “She’s got too much honour for the likes of you.”

“Rich, that, coming from her husband’s—” Jaime parried Loras’ blade just in time with his vambrace, the metal denting into his forearm. It hurt, but it left Loras open and with a twist of his wrist he levered the sword from Loras’s hand before swinging his own sword high, bringing the edge of the blade to rest just under Loras’ jaw.

“Her _husband_ thinks you should find someone else to rescue.”

“Did he tell you that when he was in your bed? Well, tell him—” Jaime leaned in and pressed the blade a little harder against the other man’s neck, the skin giving way into the dulled metal, blood beginning to bead near the tip “—I only rescue maidens.”

His words hung in the air between them, a physical, palpable thing. Jaime’s blood pounded in his ears until finally, _finally_ , Loras kneeled and spat, “I yield.”

Jaime grinned, a feral, triumphant thing. He shoved Loras away and the man staggered back before retreating to the edge of the field with his sword sheathed and his shoulders slumped. Jaime would feel sorry, if not for the fact that Loras had gone, _purposefully,_ to challenge his lover’s wife. And speaking of her—

Jaime turned around. The fight with Loras had taken longer than he anticipated, and the crowd was thinning. Only a dozen or so knights left, each embroiled in their own battles, longer than merely shaking off unworthy contenders. But the wench was free, scanning the field just as Jaime was. Her helmet was askew, the visor was nowhere to be seen—likely knocked off its hinge—and her red, sweaty face was in full view.

Even from this distance he could see the way she had come alive with the fight. Her skin was flushed with exertion and her eyes were bright, and for all the many portraits and tapestries that hung in the Red Keep and Casterly Rock not one of them had been able to capture in the kings and queens and lords even a _hint_ of her majesty, her glory. How could anyone doubt that she was a knight? How could anyone look at her and mock her? Jaime had never seen someone look so wonderful. She stood tall in her dented armour, but her mouth fell open as her gaze met Jaime’s. 

This was it, Jaime thought. He had been waiting for it, waiting to charge at her and test her blade. The few men that remained between him and Brienne were mere weeds to be cut down. He saw it in her eyes, felt it in him too. It was time.

She adjusted her stance, raised her shield and readied her sword.

He took one step towards her, then another.

That was when The Mountain descended on her.

Jaime opened his mouth to warn her, but he was not loud enough to overcome the cacophony of the field. He watched as the giant man, in his blood-spattered armour, swung his great blade at her head, the flat hitting her just above the ear and she dropped. Dropped as one dead.

The noise of the crowd was thunderous in Jaime’s ears, though this time he could hear laughter too. It made his blood boil.

It made him reckless.

When The Mountain felled Jaime, it was with a blow to his chest, a dent digging in deep into his skin with a crack he felt in his chest. He could swear his teeth were rattling in his mouth, he could swear he tasted bile.

Before he passed out, he saw them: Cersei, disappointed. Father, satisfied. And Tyrion, mouth open in a scream Jaime could not hear.

Then he saw nothing but black.

* * *

The pressure was what Brienne felt first. Everything was tight and swollen and painful. She didn’t want to wake, she wanted to drift back to sleep, or to death, whatever it was that had happened to her in the melee. Anything to avoid the way the pain would surely worsen the moment she opened her eyes.

There was something cold on the side of her head. She could feel that too. And she wasn’t alone; someone was moving near her, quietly sure, but making noise all the same. The gentle clink of a dish set down on a table. The squeak of a chair as it bore the weight of a body somewhere closeby.

Carefully, she tried to shift her position on the cot, but even that little movement was too much. Pain reverberated through her skull and down her spine and she couldn’t help the moan that slipped through her lips.

“Shh, milady,” Lili said softly and lifted the cold compress from the side of her head. It helped relieve the pressure somewhat, but the cold had been soothing and it was only when it was gone that she wanted it back.

Brienne opened her eyes a sliver and was pleased to find that wherever she was, Lili had kept it dark, perhaps only one or two candles so that the girl could see what she was doing. “Where am I?” she asked, unable to see much further than the other girl’s knee.

“Your tent in the tourney field.”

Oh yes, she could see that now. The candlelight glow on the fabric walls was very distinct, as was the earthy smell every tent possessed.

“Did—was Renly here?” Brienne asked, but the moment the question escaped her, she knew that her husband had never set foot in the tent. If he’d cared at all, there would be a maester to attend to Brienne, a phial of milk of the poppy perhaps to dull the pain. Instead Brienne only had her serving maid, who did an admirable enough job nursing her, but who would be nowhere as competent as a maester. Brienne shook her head. She regretted it, but bit through the pain anyway. “Actually, never mind that. Come and help me take off this armour.”

Lili helped her sit up, and when the movement was enough to set Brienne’s stomach roiling in protest, she kept her hands on Brienne’s shoulders to hold her firm against the waves of dizziness.

Slowly, between the two of them, they took off the easier parts of the armour: the greaves and gauntlets and vambraces, the sword belt. When faced with the breastplate, however, Lili looked apprehensive. “Milady, I know I helped you put this on, but it’s all dented now and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It will be fine,” Brienne said through gritted teeth. “I don’t have anyone else to help me.”

Lili pursed her lips. Brienne had come to recognise the expression on her handmaid’s face, but whether or not the girl approved of her husband or not, it would be of no help to them now. She took a steadying breath. “I shall try to lift it if you could—”

“No need,” said a familiar voice. “I’ll help the lady undress.”

A breeze washed over her as the tent flap lifted, and her heart leapt. Renly had come. He had heard of her need and had come.

But this man was not her husband. His red jerkin was clean and fresh and his blond hair was dark with water, darker still in the low light, but Ser Jaime truly looked nothing like Renly. Her heart had only seen what it wanted to see.

“M’lord, this is not the best time,” Lili said with uncommon bravery.

“On the contrary, it seems to be precisely the right time.” He stepped closer still and let the tent flap fall closed behind him. They were alone.

Why did he come to torment her _now_ of all times? She was weary, suddenly, and she could not entirely blame the head knock for her fatigue. She was tired of Lannisters and their games—their easy insults and effortless beauty. It was a rare day when one or the other did not taunt her with their words or with their looks and she just did not have the energy for it.

She closed her eyes, unable to keep them open and look at him as he mocked her for her careless defeat. She did not have the strength for that. Not now. Not today.

But the expected remarks did not come. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, instead, and it took her a few long moments to realise he was talking to Lili, not to her.

Lili answered, “The metal has buckled so we cannot slip it off sideways. I think we must lift it, but I am not tall enough to lift it clear of her head and I do not want to hurt milady any further.”

“I’m strong enough, and quite a bit taller than you,” he said. Any other day it would’ve been a boast, but it was softly said, the way he had spoken to her when they had danced at the wedding. Brienne was no better equipped today to puzzle the surprising tenderness out than she’d been then. “I shall lift it, if you can guide it to make sure we do not knock her wound?”

“Yes ser,” said Lili, and Brienne felt the two of them shift about her, getting into position. A gentle hand nudged her legs apart so that he could stand between them while Lili climbed onto the cot beside her, setting a hand carefully on her forearm. “You can keep your eyes closed, milady, but I’ll ask you to keep still.”

There was nothing Brienne could do but obey; she was too tired to fight any more. She kept as still as she could, though the longer she sat up the dizzier she felt, even with her eyes closed as they were. But Ser Jaime and Lili worked quickly. They first took her pauldrons off, freeing the breastplate. Then, he grasped that where it crossed her shoulders, one hand on either side, and lifted slowly, only grunting a little under the weight. Once her head was through the collar, Lili slipped her hand through to cup the back of Brienne’s skull to protect it. The noise of metal scraping against metal caused her more grief than the armour itself, but soon enough Ser Jaime had lifted the rest away. She heard him set it down beside her cot.

“I told you I was strong enough,” he said, again without a hint of smugness. Instead he sounded warm, somewhat like the soft teasing tone her father used on occasion, when they shared a glass or two of wine together.

Brienne opened her eyes. Ser Jaime watched her with furrowed brows. Displeased with how she looked, no doubt. Brienne knew she must appear frightful, in her soaked gambeson and hose, hair all plastered to her face and a bloody lump on her head. She might even look worse than she felt.

“Why didn’t Renly assign some squires to help you with your armour?” he asked.

Of all things, Brienne hadn’t expected _that_ to be his question. “I’m no lord, no knight. Why would I have squires?”

“He has some, though. Seeing as he didn’t fight today, he could just tell them to attend to you.”

“And their fathers, our bannermen, would be ever so pleased that their sons were told to ready the freak lady into battle.”

“More pleased than if they had to help Renly with _his_ armour. Imagine doing all that work only to have their lord knocked into the dust in ten seconds.”

Brienne’s face burnt. The circumstances of her defeat were suddenly all she could think of. How _foolish._ She should have been more alert, she should have heard the Mountain coming at her from fifteen feet away. Instead, she had stood frozen, unable to look away from Ser Jaime’s figure.

For half a heartbeat The Warrior himself had stood across the field from her. Standing tall and victorious over Loras Tyrell’s quivering form.

Such foolish, girlish notions! Brienne looked away, but Ser Jaime held a goblet under her nose. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

Brienne wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think wine will ease the headache, ser.” And worse, nausea bubbled at the _thought_ of wine, let alone food or anything else. 

“This isn’t wine, you wench. It’s fresh juice. Come, now, we can’t have you starve to death.”

Brienne had half a mind to protest his horrid name for her, but he was waving the goblet under her nose, and the smell of fresh berries eventually convinced her to take a sip, and then another, and before long she had drained the goblet. But her folly became clear almost immediately when, without warning, she retched it all back up onto his boots.

She was coughing from the nausea, tears were bursting through her scrunched eyelids, and she felt a hand—whose, she couldn’t tell—rub her back gently, up, down, up, down, as she shuddered through the wave.

“Lili, is it?” he said softly to the other girl. “Do you have any milk of the poppy?”

“No, ser.”

He pulled a cloth from somewhere and used it to gently wipe at Brienne’s face. It was his hand too, she knew; too large and too rough to be Lili’s, but careful, ever so careful. She could not remember a time when anyone had cared for her this way. Perhaps her mother, when she had been a babe. As he worked, he continued speaking softly to her handmaiden. “The maester left me some, but it is in my tent. Could you—”

“I will be right back, milord.”

The tent flapped and Lili’s footsteps receded, but the hand was still there, resting on her nape now that her shudders had ceased.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, but he shook his head.

“It is nothing. Small sips, now,” he said again, and when she opened her eyes the same goblet was back before her, filled with the same juice. Did he bring an entire flagon? She couldn’t remember. She could barely think.

He took the flagon away when she had drunk her fill and set it down on the table beside her cot. His hand remained on her neck, thumb brushing ever so gently against the wispy hairs behind her ear.

There was a stiffness to his posture that she had only just noticed. He usually carried himself tall and proud, though he was prone to lounging like an overfed cat when people were watching him. Now, he was careful with all his movements, and it didn’t seem to be for her benefit. “Are you all right?”

“Got knocked around a little. You know how it is with melees,” he said flippantly.

But she did not know how it was, or at least she had not anticipated it to be such… chaos. She had watched a few melees in her youth, but none of that compared to being in the thick of it, the noise, the smells, the _bodies_ smashing into each other with reckless abandon. It was a wonder she lasted as long as she had. “But you won?” she asked, cautiously. He had defeated Ser Loras so thoroughly, it was inconceivable that anyone else would win.

He barked a short laugh, immediately crumpling into himself and cradling his ribs. “Ah, no. No, no. Ser Gregor won the melee. He got me quite well, and after that I don’t suppose anyone could even come close.”

Much as Brienne wanted to call him arrogant for saying so, she couldn’t. She knew the measure of those in the melee well enough, and she experienced the unrestrained brutality The Mountain doled out. “Well, that’s quite a pity,” she found herself saying.

He looked at her in astonishment. “Lady Brienne,” he said, “I did not know you held a grudge against Ser Gregor.”

The Kingslayer might be reviled, but The Mountain was feared. Brienne had heard of what the man, under Tywin Lannister’s command, had done to Princess Elia and her children. She did not know Ser Jaime well, but she could not imagine him doing… that to anyone. “I don’t think he is a true knight, that is all.”

He smiled, but there was no joy there, no mirth. “Best to get rid of that notion entirely. No one is a true knight, no matter how bright their cloak. All oaths are born broken.”

Brienne could not, would not, accept that. She knew good men. Men who would serve, who would protect. And she knew they would uphold their oaths because they were noble and true. “You have a dim view on men like you.”

“There are no men like me. Just me,” he said.

Brienne believed him. Whether it was a compliment to him or not, however, she hadn’t decided.

“And besides,” he continued, “you don’t truly believe in your own oaths, despite swearing in front of a septon.”

The beat of her heart stuttered, skin prickling despite the warmth of the air in the tent. “I don’t know what you—”

But he cut her off. “Brienne.” His hand was touching her knee. Before the defence came to her lips— _I love my husband and I am loyal to him_ —he continued on, “I know it is not my place to pry. Heavens know I know nothing about what a happy marriage looks like. I just hope that you are happy in yours.” He looked away, his cheeks a little pink. “Everyone deserves to find some happiness in their marriage. Even you.”

She could not lie. She could not pretend happiness. Instead, she settled for a truth she knew, a truth she had clung to for nearly a year. “Ours is a good match.”

“A good match for a good woman,” he mused, before reaching out to take her hand. His palm was rough like hers was, calluses on every finger, but gentle nonetheless. “May he do everything he can to deserve you.”

His hand was a comfort. How long had it been since someone held it like this, without pretense? A few moons, at least. There was a time when Renly would have done so even when no one was there to watch. They’d been friends even before he asked for her hand, and they continued to be friends, a secret held between them like a treasure. Now, that same secret was a wedge. No matter how much she tried, she could not have him while she had to keep it.

She wanted to look at his face, but she was terrified. Of him, but of her own reaction as well. What would she find looking back at her? Anything but pity, she could bear.

Footsteps halted near them and she heard, “Oh, pardon me milady, milord. I didn’t mean—” Lili faltered, looking down to see their joined hands. Brienne tried to pull away, but he held tight. _Let them see,_ she could almost hear him say. Eventually, Lili recovered; she was a very discreet lady’s maid. “The milk of the poppy, milady. And milord, your brother said he would take supper with you in the city.”

Ser Jaime released Brienne’s hand, gently. “I’d best be going, then. Seven knows what he’d get up to, if I am not around to watch him.”

Brienne nodded. Her manners were all that allowed her to speak. “Thank you for your help, ser.”

“It was no trouble. I needed new boots anyway.” He stood with a smile before she could feel guilty for soiling his feet with her sick. He bent his head in a little bow. “Will you be able to return to the castle? I could send a litter if that would help.”

“I think I can manage the walk.”

“Then I will see you tomorrow, Lady Brienne. Do take care. I should like to test your blade sometime, and I won’t be able to do that if you fall down a well because you refused to be carried by a litter.”

“Thank you,” Brienne said, and then before she could stop herself, “Jaime.”

His eyes widened, but otherwise he betrayed no surprise. “Brienne. Lili.”

And then, he left.

Lili did not take her eyes off him for several moments after, but when she did she turned back to Brienne, an eager, excited look on her face. “I think this is a bit more than a dance, milady!” In her hand she held the little brown vial of milk of the poppy, and as she rocked in place Brienne could hear coins clinking in her pocket. Tyrion Lannister’s doing, no doubt.

“He’s extending a kindness, Lili. That is all.”

“He’s not known for being kind,” Lili mused and moved to the table where the flask of juice still lay. She poured a small glass, no more than a sip or two, then made to remove the stopper from the vial.

“No.” Brienne said, holding out a hand to stop her, though the quick movement made her a little dizzy. “I should walk back before I take any. Otherwise you’ll have to carry me home, I think.”

“We’ll avoid the wells,” Lili said with a teasing grin. As much as Brienne liked her, she sometimes tended towards being a little insouciant.

Brienne would roll her eyes, but she might retch again if she did. Instead, she stood and took one step, then another. When she was reasonably certain she could walk the full distance to the castle, she said, “Come on. We’ll send someone else to collect the armour, but I would like to rest soon.”

“Yes, milady,” Lili said and held out her arm. Brienne took it gratefully. Perhaps if they walked slowly they would look like any other lady and her maid returning to the castle, sharing a confidence as they enjoyed the fresh night air.

Then again, with Brienne in breeches and gambeson, with her ugly, bruised face and broad frame, they’d sooner think she was a highwayman looking to kidnap a maid.

Perhaps she should try to walk faster, after all, if only for Lili’s sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: the joust and the hunt. To be posted Monday.


	4. Bedded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne reckon with their choices and unintended consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Luthien and Samirant, as always, and to Robotsdance for their immeasurable help in fine-tuning a particular scene.
> 
> Dear readers, this chapter gets rough. Please take care of yourselves and heed the content warning. Remember that you can step away at any time, if it becomes too much. There will be two more chapters after this. Neither will be as heavy as this chapter.
> 
> Content Warning: Intimate partner abuse, dubious consent, heavy angst. Detailed content warning with spoilers in the end notes.

When his lance broke against Jorah Mormont’s breastplate and the man fell from his destrier, Jaime forgot about the pain in his ribs. The crowd roared in approval, and for a brief moment he could pretend he was a youth once more, freshly-knighted by Arthur Dayne, handsome and loved. He could pretend that true knights existed, that he was one of them. 

He could pretend that the people did not resent him for his noblest deed.

But the fantasy was broken when Robert congratulated him only begrudgingly, tossing him a purse for his victory. Jaime did not need it, but he pocketed it anyway; he had half a mind to buy drinks for his fellow knights with it. They could get drunk on Robert’s coffers for all Jaime cared.

Perhaps he could find something else to buy with it. Would that the wench had won it. She could use new armour, seeing the one she’d worn yesterday was more fit for a sellsword down on their luck.

Next, Robert presented him with a crown of red hibiscus, a summer’s bloom. Jaime looked around the stands, a performance he’d planned all along to disguise his intent to present the crown to his sister, but for the briefest moment, his eyes caught the very woman that had just crossed his mind.

He hadn’t seen her this morning, before anyone started gathering in the lists. It was too far to make out the blue of her eyes, and more’s the pity, but he could see the ugly bruise covering half her face, barely concealed by the wisps of rough, straw-like hair falling over it. She wore a plain, well-made tunic in velvet blue, and dark breeches and boots. She looked nothing like a lady.

She looked very much herself.

Her eyes caught his, her mouth falling open. When she blinked, he was jolted back into his body and he looked away, turning instead to his sister. Queen Cersei, as regal and beautiful as a queen should be. She wore no crown today but her own spun gold hair.

“Sister,” he called. “I see you wear no crown yet, though you are a queen.”

She smiled. The crowd murmured in approval and cheered when he placed the crown atop her head, but Jaime knew enough to tell that she was angry, just as she had been this morning.

He pushed the worry away. He had a feast to attend. She could not express her anger in front of others, especially if that anger was directed at him. She would bide her time until they were alone. And then she would explode.

So it was no surprise that midway through the feast she pushed back her chair to stand and announce to her husband and the rest of the high table that she was tired and she wished to retire, and turned to him expectantly. To everyone else it looked like a young woman turning to her beloved brother for help. To him it was a command, and to do anything but obey would be disastrous.

“I shall escort you to your rooms, sister,” he said, knowing it was what she wanted to hear, but then he turned to Robert and added, “If that please you, your grace.”

“I’ve already tired her out, have I?” The man laughed, cheeks already deeply flushed with wine. He slapped Cersei on the arse and laughed some more. “Go on. Take her to get her rest. She’ll need it by the time I get home.”

Jaime smiled at the king, though he could not bring himself to laugh. Cersei turned away from both men and began to walk by herself. Jaime had to move quickly to catch up, and soon he was breathing roughly, his ribs aching with every inward breath.

As soon as they reached the royal quarters and as the door closed behind them, Cersei took off the hibiscus crown and threw it to the floor.

Jaime tried to temper his disappointment; he knew well that Cersei didn’t care for flowers. Still, he had thought giving the crown to her would at least appease the foul mood she’d been in all day long.

She shrugged off the heavy cape of her dress. “Oh, at last. Come and help me undress.”

“I should call your maid.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she said, her voice sharp. “I haven’t had you in _days_ and now’s our chance. That oaf will be spending the night with his whores, you saw how he was at the feast. So take off my dress and fuck me so hard I can feel you in my throat.”

Jaime’s cock stirred, against his better judgement. The past few nights, he had lain awake, thinking of what Robert had done to Cersei, the liberties he’d taken. Jaime had ached at thought of having her, of kissing the memory of Robert’s touch away.

“What are you waiting—”

Jaime captured Cersei’s mouth, the familiar shape of it slanting under his own lips. He nipped and sucked and soon Cersei was pliant in his arms.

They undressed in a frenzy, as though dawdling would bring Robert to the door. Soon she was bent over, her hands clutching the bedpost, and he was inside her. For a long second it was as it had always been, their bodies fitting together like a key and a lock. They were one. One body, one soul.

“Jaime,” she breathed, turning her head to look over her shoulder. She was discontented but still she pressed her hips backwards, grinding down on his cock. “I want you to _fuck_ me.”

Jaime had thought her the lock, and he the key—but her voice was capable of unleashing his lust just _so,_ so that even before the words registered, her tone brought him thrusting faster. He was the lock, Cersei the hammer that rent it asunder.

Cersei began to moan. Jaime slapped his hand over her mouth, a habit. She bit him. That, too, was a habit.

“Harder,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I’m so close Jaime, I—I’m—”

He obeyed, his own teeth grinding against each other as he held back the howl building in his throat. He was so close. If he just… He gripped her hips tightly, fingers wrapping possessively so that he could pull her back to meet each thrust. She flinched, releasing one hand off the bedpost to swat his hands off her hips.

He looked down and saw bruises dotting them. Too old to be his fault.

He must have stopped, because Cersei cried, loud, too loud, “Harder, Jaime, fuck me harder.”

He obeyed. Of course he did. But he couldn’t see anything else but the bruises, dark and _wrong_ and precisely the size of Robert’s paws. He had known Robert would take his sister, but he hadn’t expected to face the evidence of it, painted starkly on Cersei’s perfect skin.

These were bruises of a different battle, yet no more honourable than The Mountain attacking Brienne in a moment of distraction.

No more honourable than what he was doing now.

Yet though his mind raced, his body moved. It was as though he were two beings. As though his thoughts had gone away inside, leaving his body to do the work, and his body revelled in the pleasure, each thrust sending warmth through him, until—until—

His mind snapped back into place and he withdrew just as he came, his seed spilling onto Cersei’s lower back.

She turned, twisting to see for herself what he had done, looking nothing less than affonted. No. It was worse. Far worse than that. “What did you do?” she demanded, reaching her hand back to wipe his seed from her skin with disgust.

Jaime stepped back, feeling his nakedness more than he usually did after. “It is a habit,” he lied, his brain still thick with his peak, but he knew he could not let it stay that way. The look on Cersei’s face was deadly. 

She sneered and reached out to wipe her hand on his stomach, smearing his belly with his come. Then she slapped him. “Don’t lie to me. You haven’t spilled outside since I started drinking moon tea.”

He showed no pain on his face. If he did, she would win. They both loathed losing. “But you’re _not_ any more.”

“And why do you think that is?”

He knew why, of course. Her words still haunted him: _you will be a father. My children will be yours._

It wasn’t that he was terrified of the idea of being a father. Rather, he had accepted it as a nebulous part of his future ever since he was reinstated as the heir to Casterly Rock. But to cuckold a king was risky, no, _dangerous_. If it was discovered, the child would surely be killed and the two of them not long after. The thought was a vice clamped hard around his heart.

“You’re not a fool, brother, but sometimes I swear you are the most naive person I know. Surely even you know I cannot—I must not—have his children. Such low stock, those Stormlanders.”

“You can’t not have children,” he said, appalled. At some point, when she was speaking, he had taken a step back, and was now no longer within her reach.

“Naturally. And that is why they should be yours,” she said, slowly, as though she were stating an undisputed fact and not treason. “Father will get what he wanted: a Lannister on the throne. Perhaps he will finally forget that you turned down _that_ along with every other shred of loyalty to our family when you made such a mess of that Kingsguard affair.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He shook his head. He could not have this conversation naked. More than once he had considered telling Cersei about Aerys, about his madness and the horrors he had seen, but he had always stopped short. Now he was glad for his silence. It would just be another weapon she would wield against him. 

“I know that I am thinking of this family’s future when you will not.”

Where had his breeches ended up? He considered pulling the linens off the bed and wrapping them around his waist, but it would make him look even more ridiculous. “Of course I am thinking of our future. I want us to keep our _heads_.”

Cersei walked to the low table and poured herself some wine. She was unconcerned with her own nakedness. No, she used it as her armour. She knew well he would not be as harsh when she was so close to his touch. “I am very aware of what you want.”

Jaime stopped and searched Cersei’s face. “What are you speaking of?”

She set her wine down and walked to him, pressing the length of her body to his, skin on skin. It was dizzying. She knew it was. “I mean your ugly wench. You went to her tent yesterday and sent away her maid. Everyone knows, brother. It was all my ladies could gossip about, today.”

“Nothing happened. Lady Brienne was hurt, she—”

“ _Lady Brienne_ is a married woman. I know you can be discreet, so for you to act so recklessly, in front of so many witnesses... I _know_ what you were trying to do, Jaime.” She wrapped her arm around him, pulled him into a tight embrace so that her mouth was next to his ear. “You are jealous and you thought to make me so too.” Her breath was hot on the skin of his neck, but the gooseflesh that rippled down his spine made him cold. She pressed her face tightly closer, then dragged his earlobe between her teeth.

He spotted his breeches on the divan against the wall, much further away than he’d expected, and for a moment he hesitated to fetch them. It wasn’t the right time to turn his back to her. Not now, with her entwined around his body and so close to anger. She pulled his head down so their eyes met, looking as though she expected an answer, so he said, “I am jealous, yes, but she has nothing to do with it. You chose to marry Robert.”

“I chose to appease Father,” she hissed into his lips. “Did you think he would let me be? Before the rebellion, you know he wanted to marry me to Rhaegar. I am only of use to Father as a broodmare.”

“I know,” he said. He couldn’t think clearly, with her wine breath in his face and the scent of perfume and sex around them. He pulled back, though he didn’t entirely disentangle himself from Cersei. “But you’re married nonetheless. I should—”

“Court a different married woman instead?”

Jaime’s breath caught. Was that what he’d been doing with Brienne? No. He had never intended to ask for her hand, or steal her from Renly. And besides, Renly had never had her, no more than in name. “I never wanted her,” he said, with perhaps too much force.

It was Cersei who drew away this time, returning to collect her goblet of wine. She took a long sip watching him over the rim of the cup, looking just as Father did when pondering a difficult trade negotiation. Finally, she said, “Jaime, I know my marriage has been a weight on your mind. It is difficult, is it not, to share me with another man? I do not want to share you either. But you do not have to settle for Renly’s virgin wife. I have a plan.”

“A plan?” He barked a laugh but there was no mirth there.

“I know you fear for our children,” she said, as if they already had children, as if she was already with child. “I know a way for Robert to never find out.”

“The only way he wouldn’t find out is if he died. It is a miracle we have been able to keep our secret as long as we have.”

He had thought to scare her, as he was scared, but his words had the opposite effect. Her eyes brightened, blazing and ferocious in the candlelight. “Then you have thought of it too,” she said. “We should kill Robert.”

His blood was ice in his veins. “That is not what—”

“You could do it at the hunt on the morrow. Make it look like an accident. You have killed a king before, what would it be to kill another?”

Cersei’s eyes looked like wildfire, Jaime thought distantly. _Burn them all._ “Aerys was mad. I killed him—he had to die.”

His voice sounded far away, as though another Jaime was speaking for him. He had stepped back from himself, wanting to be anywhere else but here.

“Do you not see these bruises?” she said, gesturing at her hips. “Look at how he treats me after three days of marriage. He took me like an animal, covered my face and hair with a pillow and grunted Lyanna Stark’s name when he finished. Is that how a man should treat his wife?”

“You used to say we should make like animals, too. And you wanted me, often, to bite and mark you where no one could see.” And Cersei, too, had marked Jaime, though she cared not where, and he had had to make up a lie about the cobbler’s daughter.

“Jaime, he _hurt_ me.”

“Then I shall speak with him about it, urge him to be more gentle. But that does not mean he should _die_.”

“You are craven,” she spat, bending to pour herself more wine. For a moment her hair was a curtain, her face inscrutable behind it.

“I’m not addled by wine, unlike you.” Jaime had heard enough. He marched to his breeches, tugging them on with haste, and pulled his tunic and doublet on, too. “Find someone else to involve in your schemes,” he said. “I want no part of it.”

“Jaime, wait. Please.” When he showed no signs of stopping, she screeched, “I said _wait!”_

But he was already out the door, his feet crushing the hibiscus crown of love and beauty as he escaped.

The torches lining the walls of the keep cast ominous shadows on the walls, and when Jaime walked through the hallways it was as if five other men followed him. He ducked into an empty alcove to straighten his clothes, but still he felt as though there could be someone watching, someone to call him out for his and his sister’s sins.

He hurried like a thief, his pace quickening as he walked towards the training yard. He needed a bout, a fight. Something to still his mind as he let his body work.

When he arrived at the yard, however, there was not a soul to be seen. Why would there be anyone? The tourney had just ended, the purse handed out, the feast in full swing. Those who had trained for sennights would all be in whorehouses at this hour.

Except Brienne, he was sure. She would be in her quarters. The ones she shared with Renly. And she would be alone.

She was his wife, after all.

Mayhaps he could go to her, challenge her to the bout they had both wanted for months, but he hesitated. He had no reason to visit her, not at this time of night. Worse still, it would be a confirmation of the rumours the court had apparently taken such delight in. Rumours that would only damage her, not him, as these rumours always did.

He could picture her mottled red face if he went and knocked on the door. Her eyes, a blue so dark in the night. Her lips, thick and open in shock. She would be in her dressing gown, thin enough that under the torchlight he would see shadows of her freckles. She would frown. She would tell him it was improper, and she would tell him to go.

So he went instead to the armoury, seeking a tourney sword. Perhaps he could beat a dummy around until the world made sense again.

* * *

It was late, late enough that Brienne was already dressed for bed and had dismissed Lili more than an hour before. It would be time for Brienne to sleep, soon, but after sleeping most of the day away on her maid’s orders it was now hard to come by. Besides, she wanted to respond to some correspondence before she finally retired for the night. 

Father had sent a letter to keep her abreast of issues on Tarth: the management of the mines, and the port. Recent storms had thrown some good men off their ships and others down the mine’s precipice, thus preventing Father from coming to King’s Landing for the Royal wedding. It was perhaps a blessing after all, for there were too many things he would certainly disapprove of, too many parts of her life that would shame Brienne more than they already did.

Her face burnt when she remembered the glance Ser Jaime threw her just as he received the flower crown. He had quickly given it to his sister, though, disappointing many a maiden.

But he had given the crown to the right woman. Queen Cersei was surely the most beautiful woman there, and the red of the crown had matched the red of her dress perfectly. His glance had meant nothing. Just his eyes locking on a familiar face in the crowd. Not that she was recogniseable today, blackened and bruised terribly on the side of her face where The Mountain had knocked her down.

Lili had begged and begged to cover the bruise up with some powder and paste, but Brienne refused. _Let them see._ She had stood long enough, and it was only The Mountain—the one who’d won the entire melee— who had taken her down.

Renly had not been pleased. For once, Brienne couldn’t bring herself to care.

As though that thought summoned him, he appeared—as he had appeared in so many of Brienne’s dreams—at the doorway of the bedchamber. “Come and have some wine with me,” he said, quietly.

She set down her father’s letter on her desk and stood, adjusting the ties of her robe where it had fallen loose as she worked. He had retreated to their sitting room to the table where Lili always left a flagon of wine. Two goblets were filled, and as Brienne approached he picked them up and held one out to her. 

“I thought you would be with your brother until late,” she said, searching his face as she took the offered goblet. His expression was not one she recognised, unusually serious and troubled. 

He took a long draught. “He took me to the Street of Silk. Have you heard of it?”

She had. The knights in the yard could not stop singing praises to the whores who worked there. “Did he force you to—”

“No. He tried, of course, but I begged him not to make me unfaithful to my wife. You may laugh. I know it’s a marvellous jape.” But he was not laughing. There was not a hint of it in his voice or in his eyes. Her husband was a man notorious for never taking anything seriously, even when he should. 

Brienne did not know what to make of this change. Could not think of what to say. She was not clever like others were, not adept at quickly thinking of some way of smoothing out his strain with well-chosen, clever words.

But she shouldn’t have worried, because Renly continued, “Tell me. Are you happy lately? You seem very carefree these past few days.”

He took another long drink from his goblet, emptying it, so he poured himself another as he waited for her to answer. At last, she gathered enough voice to stutter, “I have—I am—I am comfortable.” Though that was not quite the right word to describe this past week. It had been fraught, swinging wildly from royal event to royal event where she had been forced into dresses that made her feel like a sow in silk, had made her the laughing stock of the court. But the melee had pushed most of that from her mind. The moment she had gripped her sword with the knowledge that she would be able to use it, to _prove_ herself with it, all her other concerns had become insignificant. She had finally felt free to be herself.

Renly reached out a hand to push her hair back from where it was covering the black eye and bruising. “I want you to be happy, you know. Even if he puts a baby in you, it is better for us. But do be more discreet.”

She blinked. It was as if everything went quiet, even the crackling of embers in the fireplace. “What?” 

“The Kingslayer,” Renly said, leaning in as though sharing a confidence. “I know what you have been doing with him. Though I must say I thought your tastes were a little less… blond.”

Brienne took a step back and bumped into the sofa. “I’m not—”

“I’m not blind. Nor is the rest of the court. They’ve all seen how you are around each other. He cornered me in the yard the other day and practically gave me a spanking for marrying you, and all anyone could talk about today was that you were alone with him in your tent yesterday.”

“I wasn’t, Lili was there with me, she—”

“But he sent her away.” It was said with a victorious note, as though he had caught her in a lie.

Brienne’s face burned. Why did he think she’d done something wrong? She hadn’t done anything that she shouldn’t. Ser Jaime was being a good friend to her, giving her care after her injury, that was all. “He did that so she could fetch some milk of the poppy, since my husband didn’t care enough to send a maester to tend to me.”

“I was with—”

“I know who you were with.” There was steel in her voice, sharp and hard.

He said, in the tone of someone teaching a slow child, “You’re the Lady of Storm’s End. You could send for a maester and one would come to you.”

The headache she had been fighting all day was returning now with a vengeance. This conversation was absurd. “What if I had been too ill to call for a maester?” she asked, angry now. “Was I to send Lili to fetch someone while I lay unconscious in a tent in the middle of the tourney grounds?”

She didn’t know why she was saying these things. It made her sound like a spiteful woman, resentful of her husband for not showering his attentions on her, when he had always been open with her about how this relationship would work. It was a marriage to protect both of them from the scorn of the world. She would not be forced to marry some oaf of a man who only wanted her for her island and he would be able to do as he wanted with the man he wanted.

But still the world scorned her. And she did not feel protected. “If I had been indiscreet, what should we call your dance with Lady Margaery? The court laughed at me until Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime rescued my reputation.”

He looked abashed. The pleasure that came with that sight churned in her belly with the shame and guilt. He said, “I… apologise. Just before, Robert had come to remind me of our… duties. I could not bear to be around you, after that.”

Renly had chosen her dress, had ordered the maids to truss her up. She endured even the rose bath, but no matter how perfumed, she could never be a Tyrell. Especially not the Tyrell he preferred, all day and all night. Her hands were tight around her goblet; her eyes set on its murky depth. “You could never bear to be around me.”

His answer was whip-quick and loud. “No, Brienne.” He moved half a step towards her, his hand reaching then falling. He continued, softer, “That isn’t true. You know it isn’t. You’re a dear friend to me, but I know how you feel. Felt. About me. I wished only to disabuse you of that notion.”

“By abandoning me?” And oh, how she hated it—the desperate, petulant tone of her voice, the image of a scorned wife that she donned. She was not a lover spurned. But she was his friend, and he had left her behind.

“By setting you free.”

She looked up, then, from her wine. Free? Perhaps Ser Jaime was right, and her husband _was_ foolish. She had no freedom, being the daughter of a lord, married to the king’s favourite brother, yet ignored by her well-adored husband. All that did was remind the court that she did not belong. “And what was I free to do?”

Renly looked guilty. She could tell he was having a hard time looking at her, though this time it didn’t feel like it had anything to do with her unfortunate looks. “I hope—I hoped, rather, that with me out of your hair, you would be free to seek your happiness elsewhere, like I have. I didn’t know you would do so with reckless abandon, else I’d have… well.”

He’d trailed off, seemingly unable to explain himself any further. Brienne didn’t know what to say. He had expected her to break her vows because he had broken his? Did he not know that the consequences of that would always be more dangerous for her than it would ever be for him? Still, she kept her voice calm when she said, “Of the two of us, I am not the reckless one.”

“No. No, you are not.” He sighed, knocked back the rest of his wine then wiped his face with his free hand. 

“You say you wish me to find happiness elsewhere, but I am a woman. If I were to beget a child, it shall be yours or I shall be guilty of a crime. Do you know that?”

“I know that, of course I do, I only mean—”

“You mean you would allow it. Claim it as yours. Do you think your brothers and their heirs would stand by and allow—” her voice hitched at the thought, but she ploughed through as best she could “—Jaime Lannister’s son to inherit Storm’s End? Men can afford to have dalliances, and baseborn children from those, but not us. And yet with _yours_ , you show the court how much this marriage is a farce. I am a jape to them. They know I am nothing but a mummer’s puppet for you to hide behind.”

Renly opened his mouth, ready to refute her claim but she didn’t know what he could deny. Perhaps that his affair with Ser Loras was no mere dalliance. She already knew that much, however, and they both knew it could never be anything _but_ a dalliance, in the eyes of the court. In the eyes of the world. That taboo extended to high and lowborn alike.

She didn’t like to use his nature against him, just as she loathed when others used her own appearance against her, yet she suppressed the urge to apologise; minutes ago he had accused her of recklessness. She was many things, but reckless was not one of them.

For a moment there was silence between them. It grew until it felt as though it would swallow her whole and take him with it, but she could think of nothing she could say to break it. She could see his lips working, forming the shapes of words, soundless, his knuckles growing whiter and whiter. Whatever it was was a heavy burden on him, too.

“What is it?” she finally asked, softening as she saw his turmoil.

“The court knows of Loras and me, and your friendship with the Kingslayer has raised questions. I’m afraid our marriage has not protected us like we hoped it would.”

“I don’t understand.” Why would he bring that up once more, when it was the exact subject of their quarrel, just now? 

“Robert… He has been pushing me to produce an heir. I thought he was just japing, you know how he is, always bragging about how many bastards he’s left around the country. But tonight he began to talk of having you examined to check that you aren’t barren, and…” he did not need to finish his thought.

Her blood turned cold. “An examination?”

“By the Grand Maester, yes. I know we planned to pass the castle to Stannis’ heir, but you know how much Robert loathes him. I don’t think he would allow us to do so. And these rumours… they do you no credit, my dear. I’m beginning to think we might have to… to...” He trailed away, but she could imagine what the rest of his words would be.

It was hard to fathom. “But you—”

“Trust me, I do not wish it. It’s not too late, you know, to tell me that you have a dalliance with the Kingslayer. Free me from this duty.” He grinned, but it fell short of a sincere one. Instead, he looked forlorn. Desperate.

All she could do was shake her head. Barely. “I have not… It never occurred to me, to... with him. Not until you mentioned him. I barely think of him as a friend, and it is just because he has been kind to me. Like you were kind to me.”

Renly shrugged and nudged Brienne’s goblet with his, pushing her to drink. “A pity. Though I could swear he wanted you.”

Brienne hated thinking of it. The mere notion of Ser Jaime wanting her… the impossibility of it burned her, a reminder of her ugliness. At least her own husband wanted other women just as little as he wanted her.

She took a bracing gulp of wine. It burned its way through her, forging her resolve.

“If we were to… do this, how…” Brienne trailed away, her face burning. She couldn’t say it.

“Well, Robert would insist you stay and deliver it here, in the keep, but after that you would leave for Storm’s End to raise it. I would visit, but you would manage the castle, too—”

“No.” She shook her head. Swallowed. “I meant. How. How do we... What would you do? To.”

“It could be quick. We might get lucky after the first try.” He didn’t sound convinced, but she held onto his words. Once. Just once. Still, it was a terrifying thing.

“I have never…”

“I have… heard of ways, for men like me, for when they need an heir. But I have never—well, never with a woman. If you wish, we will find a way together.” He reached down and took her free hand in his own and gave it a light squeeze. It was soft where hers was hard. So very different to Ser Jaime’s hand.

She looked down on his hand, up to the beard she had loathed, the face she had loved. She still loved, even today. Once, their marriage had been a blessing to her, to them both.

She mustered her courage. Every part of her quivered with the fear of rejection, and almost as much fear of what might happen if he accepted. “Should we… tonight, I mean. Now?”

Brienne watched as the resolution hardened Renly’s face, the set of his jaw. The briefest nod, and then he brought her hand up and kissed her knuckles, a proper, courtly gesture so much at odds with their circumstances. “If it matters at all, Brienne,” he said, “I am glad that if this is to happen, it is with you. My wife, my friend.”

She tried, so very hard, not to let his kiss warm her and please her. She failed. Such paltry flattery, and she fell anyway.

He tugged on her hand gently, pulling her towards their bedroom. She still held the goblet in her other hand, unsure what she should do with it. It was still mostly full. But when they reached the foot of the bed and Renly dropped her hand to begin working at the laces of his jerkin, she downed the rest of the wine in one big gulp. It did not warm her.

She turned away and set the cup down on the chest at the end of the bed. Lili would deal with it on the morrow, find it, take it away to have it cleaned. She didn’t know what to do then, but to watch her husband undress felt like a violation. So she busied herself with her own clothes, untying her sash, folding her robe after she took it off. She reached for the hem of her shift, ready to pull it over her head.

“No!” Renly said, before shame flushed his cheeks. “Leave it.” He had removed his jerkin, but still had his undershirt on. His boots were lined up neatly beside the chest where he had toed them off and he had unlaced his breeches.

She wished she could comfort him, but she was the wrong sort for it. Instead, she said, carefully, “Would it be easier if there is less light?”

 _All women are the same in the dark_ , Septa Roelle’s voice echoed through her mind. Perhaps Brienne could even be something other than a woman, in the dark.

Renly looked away in shame. He couldn’t say it. Would not hurt her further, tonight. But she saw his answer all the same, and so she threw the dirty water from the wash basin into the fireplace and blew all the candles out. It wasn’t perfect darkness—the moon still poured light in through the window—but in this light she could not see Renly’s face anymore. She could just see a man. She hoped that was all he could see, too, for what use was her ungainly shape if not for this?

He cleared his throat. “I think it would be best if you lay down.”

“All right,” she said and approached the bed. She pulled the covers back and slipped between the sheets, looking up at the ghostly canopy above the bed.

“No, not—on your belly. Please. And atop the covers.”

“Oh.” She had not thought. But she could do that. She manoeuvred herself until the blankets were beneath her once more, then she turned onto her stomach, her face sideways on her pillow, looking towards the extinguished fire.

For a long moment she lay there, waiting for something she didn’t know. She felt him behind her, his breathing growing ragged. Then, she heard the sound of a bottle being unstoppered, and _something_ sliding and slipping.

“Come here,” he eventually said, his too-cold hand touching her thick waist, guiding her hips. He took one of the pillows and pushed it beneath her, propping her up.

“All right. Is this—” but she heard him draw in a sharp breath, sudden enough that it concerned her and she turned her head to see his eyes closed, face turned up towards the canopy. The look on his face was… 

She could tell he was struggling for something, perhaps against something. It had been her voice that had done it. Her undeniably feminine voice—the only feminine thing the gods had given her. Perhaps it would be easier for him if she stayed silent. He could close his eyes and imagine whoever he liked if she didn’t allow her voice to intrude upon the fantasy.

So instead, she reached back and briefly touched his hand. He gripped it back, and though his fingers were slippery with oil he squeezed, once, twice, as they had so often done as newlyweds—their secret signal. _I am with you_. Then he let go of her hand and pulled her shift up, the cool air on her backside sending a shiver down her spine. 

He touched her hip with oil-slicked fingers, then withdrew. Instead, she felt him bend over her, close but not touching, and he offered a small bottle to her face. The same oil he had used it, perhaps on himself. Brienne felt shame—the whole affair was shameful, unnatural though it was expected of them—but she put her hand up and Renly poured the oil onto her fingers.

She reached down, expecting a rebuke. Once, she had done so when she was young, and Septa Roelle had beaten her hands with a reed for being lustful. Brienne had never touched herself like that again, not ever. Now, though, she heard another lesson from her Septa instead: _always obey your lord husband, gods know he won’t deserve you as his wife._

She didn’t know exactly what to do, but she smeared some oil between her legs, between the folds, around her opening.

Then, she folded her arm under her pillow again.

“I am sorry,” he said, and she felt something fleshy and thick between her legs. “I’m told it will hurt.”

She nodded. He pushed.

She gritted her teeth and endured the pain as her maidenhead tore. It was bad, but nothing compared to being struck down by the Mountain. But then, the oil might have lessened it, allowing his skin to slide against hers less painfully than had there been nothing. She was grateful for that, at least, and for her husband to think of offering it to her.

Renly began to move, slowly at first, then a little faster as he found a rhythm. The initial pain faded into an uncomfortable sense of fullness that did not ease. She found it hard to keep her silence when Renly shifted a little too quickly for her to adjust to the change. She moved to bury her gasp in the pillow, folding her arms beneath her chest to brace herself. Her eyes were set on the dark, dark fireplace.

She wondered if she had vanished herself enough that Renly could take his pleasure. She had tried all her life to be invisible. But she had always been too large, too unseemly, too improper in her breeches and her training, too witless for the conversations of the aristocracy. She had never been successful in the act, not even tonight.

Yet the way he clutched her waist through her shift and the sounds he made did not indicate displeasure. But then what did she know of a man’s pleasure?

Her neck soon began to ache, and she turned her head the other way—but that made the pillow push on the tender bruise on her cheek. The pain of her face brought her mind off the wrongness between her legs, so she let it be. Think of the tourney, she thought. She had been armed, there. She had been strong. She had brought down the men who wronged her, and after she had fallen, Ser Jaime had come to see her.

His hand had been so warm, so gentle, that afternoon in the tent. He had rubbed her back, too, and only teased her once for retching on his boots.

She let her mind wander, and she did not care if she lingered on the thought of Ser Jaime. If he had a lover, she thought he would take her while looking at her face. And he would be gentle, too. Ease her through any pain. Because she would be beautiful, like him. She would be very much unlike Brienne.

After a while, the pain simply became part of the rhythm of the act. Eventually, though, she felt a lessening in her, as if she was not as full, and Renly’s grunts turned frustrated, his pace faster but the impact in her less, and it was concerning enough that she broke her silence.

“Renly?” she asked.

He cursed and withdrew, away from her, and she scrambled back to sit—wincing at the feeling of the linens against her folds—facing her husband, who had his face buried in his hands. She waited until he looked at her again. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Brienne, I can’t.”

Brienne could not help but look, an absurd blush lighting her cheeks. _Is that what it looks like?_ It looked smaller than it had felt within her, and softer too.

She did not know what to do. She was still uncomfortable; she felt sore and wide and sticky and she desperately needed to use the chamberpot, but she could not do that while he was like this, with his soft cock out and his breeches around his knees and his face full of horror and shame—none directed at her, no, but such an expression was still familiar to her that she felt, somehow, at fault once more.

They did this to be respected, to be protected. Was it not proper? Was it not a duty? Yet it felt like a punishment. At this moment, she felt nothing like a highborn lady, a lord’s wife, as she should. 

She did not feel like a woman.

“Did it… Will we?” she asked, not sure what to say. Would this be enough to give them a child? She knew the man needed to plant his seed inside the woman, but how would she know?

He shook his head.

“Oh.”

She did not know what else to say. What could she say?

Brienne leaned over and retrieved her robe from where it sat on the trunk. Wrapping it around herself, she tied the sash tight. For a brief moment, it felt almost like armour. “Renly,” she whispered.

“Yes?” He looked up, his eyes too shiny in the moonlight.

“Stay tonight?” she asked, and reached a hand across the covers to him. “Please.”

It was too dark to make out the expression on his face, but she heard remorse when he said, “Of course.” He sat next to her and took her hand but did not look at her. “I am sorry, my friend.”

 _He has called me his friend so many times, tonight,_ Brienne thought. She tucked the word away in her chest, a shield, a safeguard. She said to him, “I know.”

“I wish there had been another way.”

“It’s all right,” she said, but she could hear it was hollow. “I am sorry, too,” she added, for she truly was.

She dropped his hand and pulled back the covers. He kept his back turned to her until they were both lying next to each other in their bed.

For a while they were quiet, but then he said, just as hollow as her own reassurances, “Maybe I will be able to—maybe tomorrow I can—”

She shook her head. “Not now. We don’t need to talk about it now.”

“All right,” he agreed, then sniffled. “After I return from the hunt.”

Brienne reached for his hand until it was clasped in hers between them, squeezed it once, twice, but said nothing else. _I am with you_. They lay awake together for a long time afterwards. Eventually he drifted off into an uneasy sleep, his dark beard looking darker in the waning moonlight. It took longer for sleep to come for her, but eventually it did, because before long she was waking with the morning light seeping through her eyelids. Somewhere nearby she could hear a body moving, though quietly, as though they didn’t want to disturb her.

She felt a hand brushing her hair off her face, then footsteps retreating until all was quiet once more.

When she opened her eyes, she was alone.

* * *

Jaime had his bow ready, with a quiver full of arrows, and a hunting knife at his waist. He and a host of other lords were gathered by the gate, waiting for Robert to come and lead them to the hunt. Jaime looked around at the other lords. Some of them were bruised from the tourney, some still recovering from their night of debauchery, some both.

He was bruised, certainly, but as far as the rest of the men were aware he had retired early rather than while away the hours between some woman’s legs. They had all commented at one time or another about that oddity in him, that he was not interested in the pleasures of the flesh. Not one of them knew the truth, thank the gods: that he had done just as they had done, but he had done it with his sister. He and Cersei were discreet, certainly, but the signs were there if anyone cared to look closely.

It helped that most men kept their distance from him, and that he made no effort to encourage closeness. He had no need of it. He had Tyrion, and he had Cersei. He needed no others. Others would notice that he spent more time with his sister than was usual. They would notice the bruises she sucked into his skin just above the line of his collar. They’d notice the bite mark he now wore on his hand.

Cersei had bitten hard enough to break his skin. He was fortunate that it was not his sword hand.

Truthfully, he did not want to be here. After last night, the last thing Jaime wanted to do was to go on the hunt, when Cersei had all but ordered him to kill Robert.

Jaime wouldn’t kill the man, but Robert had hurt his sister, and Jaime promised he would talk some sense into him. He owed his late queen as much as he owed Cersei that.

Robert swaggered in, wearing light armour, with boiled leather and gold embossing. He had a waterskin—or wineskin, who could know—in his hand, and his young squire, Jaime’s own cousin Cleos, followed him with an armful of supplies. “Men! All ready for our hunt, I see. I trust you celebrated enough last night?”

“You’re late, brother,” called Renly with an insouciant grin, though Jaime noted the dark circles under his eyes and the way his smile faltered when he thought no one was looking. Even more telling was that Loras Tyrell was nowhere in sight. Normally the two men were glued at the hip. _Troubled in love_ , Jaime thought. 

“Yes, well, you seem like you could use a little more rest yourself, eh Renly? Didn’t know you even leave your room when you don’t look your prettiest.”

“Your grace, as your Master of Laws, I would like to advise you to perhaps fuck off,” Renly shot back.

Stannis scowled. “Renly.”

“Oh, lighten up, Stannis, you old bore,” Robert said. “I’m just glad he’s not letting his wife join the hunt in his place, too.”

Jaime snorted. Brienne would be twice the hunter Renly could ever be.

“Something funny, Lannister?” Robert asked, and there was a hint of danger there.

“So very many things it is hard to single out just one.” Jaime tried to take measure of Robert’s mood. He looked as well as he could hope: tired, probably a little hungover. So there was some merit to letting him drink a little more and shoot some arrows before he broached the subject of Cersei.

“I’ll speak with you. Now.” Robert ordered.

He had certainly adapted well to his throne, Jaime thought. Not horrible, as far as usurpers went. “Of course, brother.”

Robert drew Jaime away from the party, and when they were out of earshot, he said, “You’re not joining the hunt.”

“Pardon me?”

“Give the other men a chance at some glory. You had your melee and your joust, and you pocketed the purse besides. Let them shoot some fat boars and leave your pretty face out of this.”

Jaime could not believe what he heard. He knew well enough Robert didn’t care for the other men. No, the man wanted his own slice of glory, which he had been denied in the tourney. In the hunt, he would lead the men and decide the path of pursuit. He would blow the horn and bask in the attention of the men who all wanted to suck his cock.

The unmitigated gall of it all.

So be it, then. Jaime never wanted to go, anyway. “I don’t think riding through the thickets will be good for my injuries, besides,” Jaime said. “Before you go, I too want to speak with you.”

“Out with it, then,” Robert said, impatient.

“I’d be grateful if you’re gentler with my sister,” Jaime bit out. He’d meant to sweeten it, to be less accusatory, but he’d never been good at soothing the moods of people like Robert.

Robert clearly thought the same, for his brows darkened and he said, “And what is it you know of how I treat your sister?”

Many, many things. Jaime had seen the bruises, had heard her accounts. But he could say nothing of that, so instead he said, “I see how she recoils from your touch even in front of the court.”

“Maybe you ought to tell her to behave in front of the court.”

Jaime could hold his tongue no more. “Every night, when I was still a Kingsguard, Queen Rhaella would weep and scream, and I stood by. For all the trouble it has brought me, all the scorn and hatred, do you want to know what I regret about the Kingslaying business, Robert?” He stepped into Robert’s space, crowding him. The king might be broader and taller, but Jaime was more lethal. “I regret not doing it sooner.”

Jaime strode away, then, leaving his horse behind. His squire could deal with it.

He didn’t return to his rooms straight away, nor did he visit his sister. It did not seem wise. Who knew whether Robert would have him followed or not. Jaime was lucky enough that he still had his tongue. Besides, he did not particularly wish to see his sister. She would likely complain about how he should be on the hunt, how it was his duty to kill Robert for his sins against her.

Jaime thought Cersei might be right, and that sickened him.

He didn’t really want to be around anybody, he told himself. He didn’t really want to be around himself, either, but there wasn’t much choice there. 

For some time he walked the halls aimlessly, encountering servants, mostly, and the occasional lord too old or too hungover to have joined the hunt. His Kingslayer reputation meant most of them kept their distance, and if that failed the truly baleful look on his face had them turning and walking the other way.

He was not surprised when his feet took him to the practice yard. It was where he eventually ended up most days, especially when he faced some kind of turmoil. He could leave it all behind when he had a sword in his hand. Things were simpler then. Attack. Defend. It was easy. He did not have to think as he worked through his paces, he just had to move.

And if the yard was empty, he didn’t have to worry about prying eyes. He was free to let loose and destroy an overstuffed dummy or two. Only he would know he imagined Robert’s face on them as he hacked them to pieces.

But oddly enough, he was not particularly dismayed when he found Brienne there, alone. Strangely, she was not in her usual uniform of men’s breeches and tunic, but a plain blue dress, not at all unlike the simpler styles that many of the castle’s maids wore. It was the same colour as the dress she had worn to the family dinner just two weeks before, a deep, sapphire blue.

Despite the odd wardrobe choice, she still had her favoured blunted sword in her hand, and was facing off against her usual practice dummy in the far corner of the yard. Like her husband she looked tired and pale, though she did not wear it as well as he did; the bruise on the side of her face was just as ugly as it had been the day before. Her movements were slow and deliberate, so dissimilar to the barely contained force she usually wielded in the yard.

At first he watched her, keeping to the shadows. She did not seem to be aware that she was no longer alone and for some reason he did not want to disturb her. Whatever hypnosis the yard performed on him when he was agitated seemed to be working on her just as well, and who was he to rob her of that? But then she did something that he’d never seen her do before. She stumbled.

“Brienne.” The name was out of his mouth before he’d thought to speak. He’d stepped forward too, his arms held out instinctively ready to catch her should she fall.

But she didn’t fall all the way, and that was good. He was a fool with his arms outstretched, still five paces away. When she turned to him, he dropped his arms. She didn’t comment on it, instead saying, “Jaime. I thought the hunting party had departed.”

“It has. Robert respectfully requested that I stay behind to ‘give the other men a chance for glory’.” He rolled his eyes as he spoke, so that she could be sure to understand what his thoughts on the matter were. “I’d rather not spend the day wandering around after that drunken lout anyhow. Wine burps turn my stomach.”

“That’s very kind of you, then, letting the men run loose without you there to glint at them,” she said. She had said things just like this to him on many occasions before—disparaging comments about his vanity or his good looks—but there was something different in her voice this time. Her heart was not in it.

He frowned, eyes darting to the bruise. “Are you well?” Perhaps she still was dizzy from the head knock. Many a man had been felled by a lesser blow, killed even. Jaime himself had vomited for days once, after a particularly rattling smack with the flat of the blade when he had squired for Lord Crakehall.

Brienne’s hand shot up, pulling her hair down to cover the bruise. Not that it did much; the black eye was still prominent. “I’m as well as can be, considering.” She paused, stretching the silence between them until it became nigh-unbearable to Jaime, then started, “I… am not one for words. Might we not just train together, in silence?”

“As you wish.” Jaime walked to the rack of training swords, picking one with the most passable balance, and brandished it in a stance. “Though I must warn you, I tend to run my mouth. You needn’t feel obligated to answer if you are not in the mood, however.”

She watched him with a confused frown. “What are you doing?”

“Is it not clear? I’m challenging you to a bout, as I said I would.” When she still hadn’t moved into position, he added, “My lady, mayhaps we should go see the maester now, if your memory is so addled.”

“Oh, do shut up,” she said, though the furrow in her brow eased a little. She moved into her stance, a low stable one that would not be permitted by a stiff bodice. That explained the plain gown. Maids and servants needed to work with their hands, needed to crouch and lift heavy pails of water; they had no need for tight stays.

“Make me, then,” he began, but she’d already advanced.

Reckless, reckless. He parried her blade easily, side-stepping her. Though he enjoyed the way her skirts billowed as she spun in place, almost a dancer’s twirl.

“You seem practised fighting in a dress,” he said, rolling his arm to twist his blade in an unnecessary flourish. She pursed her lips, clearly unimpressed. He suppressed the flush of pleasure it gave him. He shouldn’t be surprised that she wasn’t dazzled by flashy displays.

“It took a while to convince my father to let me train in breeches,” she said. She stood still, keeping her distance, letting him come to her.

So he did.

For a moment, they trained in relative silence. There was no sound but their battle, the grunts and bumps, the scuffling footsteps and blades kissing. Sweat beaded at their temples, their breathing grew ragged, yet neither gave in. Neither pushed, either, content to feel each other out in the back and forth, not seeking completion or victory. They spun around each other, their breaths mingling as their faces came close, then apart. It was easily the most he’d enjoyed himself in a year. The simple joy of a fight. Glorious.

“You grimace before you lunge,” he said eventually, when they were drawn close together once more, their blades locked between them. He struggled to lever his blade back, away from the pressure she exerted, but she was far stronger than he’d expected. Perhaps stronger than he was.

A frisson of _something_ ran through him, at that thought.

But she broke the hold unexpectedly, taking several long steps back until she was out of his reach once again. “I am all right,” she said, a horrible liar. Her stance was odd. Wide, yes, but stiff at the same time, rather than fluid and poised to strike.

“Did someone get your leg at the melee?” he asked, for he couldn’t fathom what would make her so awkward. “Or perhaps your middle?”

She sighed, adjusted her stance. It did not help her look less like she was in pain. “I did not sleep well, that is all.”

That was when Jaime put it together. “Your husband did not look well either, this morning. I gather he had about the same amount of sleep you did.”

Brienne shrugged. “Perhaps. I slept a little later than he did.”

So, they _had_ spent the night in the same bed. How curious. What kind of sleepers were they? Did she wear her shift, or did she sleep in the nude? Knowing Brienne’s proper manners, perhaps they slept fully clothed, as travellers did when forced to share a bed at an inn.

“I do not wish to talk about it, as I said. If you don’t want to continue our bout, I will find myself a dummy. They seem quite free, right now.”

The thought of losing her—losing this moment—stung him enough that he said, “No! No. Forgive me, I mean no offence.” To prove his dedication, he made a half-hearted lunge at her.

She sidestepped it, knocking the blade away from her with her own. When they were once more circling each other, she looked at him oddly. “I know that. You are not as inscrutable as you may think, you know.”

“I do not think I’m inscrutable at all. If I mean to insult you, you will know it.” He held his sword out once more, but waited for her to advance upon him this time. He was rewarded when she raised her sword high, aiming to deal him a crushing blow, but it required her to take a deep step, and once again she winced and faltered, dropping her sword with a cry.

He dropped his sword beside hers immediately and took her gently by the arms. “You are _hurt_. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

He expected another protest, another fervent reassurance that she was nothing but hale and hearty, but instead her thick lip quivered for a second before she burst into tears.

Or rather, her face scrunched and fat droplets of water fell from her impossibly blue eyes; he thought the ocean had escaped her at last. She held her breath for a long moment, then released it in a ragged sob, and tried to push him away to hide her face in her hands, but he fended her off and moved his hands firmly to her waist.

“Brienne—”

She shook her head until more strands of hair fell over her face and stuck to her tear tracks. One of her hands pushed at his shoulder half-heartedly before he caught it to hold gently above his heart. She heaved in a breath, then another. “Forgive me, I do not know what came over me.”

But this close to her he could feel that she was racked with little tremors, as if she were about to shake herself apart with the effort of holding herself together. What had happened?

He had been selfish, fighting her when she was still recovering from her injuries, injuries that clearly pained her more than she was comfortable showing. Why else would she be wearing a dress? Not once had he seen her looking comfortable in a gown and yet here she stood training in one.

“Come and sit. Rest a little while before we continue. You are still not well. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Shall I fetch some wine for you?”

She paled a little, and said, “I would rather stand, if it’s all the same to you.”

It was like one of Tyrion’s little mystery tales; he finally had all the little bits of information and they snapped into place before his eyes: her exhaustion and the tender way she held herself steady, with her free hand hovered ever so slightly above her belly. Her grimace when she lunged. Her tears. “My lady… what happened?” his voice was barely louder than a whisper. “There is no shame on your part… Did Renly hurt you?”

That, somehow, stopped the tears, and confusion took its place. “I don’t understand.”

“You needn’t protect him.” It was hard to imagine Renly finding the spine to be angry with anyone, let alone the fortitude to take his anger out on his wife in such a fashion. But he had seen the atrocities weaker men could wreak, and more so if their manhood was in question—a question commonly posed against men with Renly’s tastes. “I have no fear of Baratheons.”

“It was—no, you are mistaken.” But still she hesitated. “He did not—I was not forced...”

He waited. Somehow, he knew he shouldn’t push her.

At last, she said, “His grace has been pushing for Renly to produce an heir, as you know.” He nodded, and she continued, “Renly and I… we…” She trailed away, but he could glean the rest. Her face was so, so red, so blotchy and puffy. Even her one redeeming feature, her astonishing eyes, were turned away from him, as though she expected his rebuke.

But he had no harsh words for her, not when she was… not when she stood before him hurt and trying to hide it, upset and trying to pretend that everything was fine. Renly, however, deserved no such consideration. “He was cruel, then,” he said, voice hard.

“No!” she said, harsh. “No. He was kind about it, and it could have hurt more, according to my septa. All women feel pain during, and we must endure it.”

His hand tightened on her waist, itching to pick up his blade again, but he couldn’t. Not while she was in his arms. “What other nonsense did your septa pour into your head?”

She faltered, eyes darting up to his, searching, for what, he could not say. “Was she wrong?” Her voice was small now. Meek.

 _“Yes,”_ Jaime gritted out. He left out the details, unable to say it when she was in this state. “But of course your husband wouldn’t know better.” Then, in a stroke of inspiration, he said, “Would it make you feel better if I tell you that he is perhaps quarreling with his lover?”

Brienne gave him a rueful smile. “It would make me a horrible wife, but no. Not particularly.”

Well, that made him feel quite foolish, but he forged on, “What would, then? It brings me no pleasure to see you like this. Shall I fetch a maester?”

She was quiet, until, “You’re not what I had expected, Ser Jaime.”

He felt as though he was one step away from saying—or doing—something very, very foolish. He managed, eventually. “I am sure you’re the only one to think that.”

She looked pensive. “They all talk of your cruelty, but I think they confuse you with your sister. She is cruel but you… you.” She searched around for words, and he was paralysed, waiting for her to settle on a description. “Everyone talks about The Kingslayer as if he was some kind of monster, and I think you have listened to them and you think it’s true, that you are monstrous. And so you play the part the world expects of you, cocky, rude, obscene Jaime Lannister, the man so craven and abhorrent that he would kill his king. But you would defend me against my husband because you saw me wincing when I lunged.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

Brienne wasn’t crying anymore, though she still looked quite confused. “What happened that made you break your oath, that day?” she asked.

No one had _ever_ asked _._ Instead of answering, before any thought could prevent him, he surged forward and kissed her.

She was tense, but all at once she melted, a shudder running through her body and into his own, for now his arms were tight around her. Her lips were the softest he had ever kissed, her frame a solid thing he could cling to, as though she was all the salvation he’d been denied. It was too brief. It was forever. They broke apart, breathing hard, and before she could question him, the story spilled from him, softly spoken into her ear, as he kept her in his arms.

When it was done, she was crying, again, but this time he was too. He hadn’t cried in years—it was a weakness he couldn’t afford—but he did not feel weak here, with her arms wrapped around him. He tilted his head up to kiss her tears away, careful not to press his lips too hard against her bruise, not wanting to cause her more pain, as her fingers brushed _his_ tears off his face. 

At last, she said, with a half-chuckle, “Renly was right.”

The mention of her husband jolted him, and he almost released her, stung as he was by her words. “What?”

“He said he thought you wanted me, and I couldn’t—I wouldn’t believe it. No one wants me. No one wants this.”

He had a denial ready on his tongue, one he’d gotten used to saying, over and over again these past few days: _I do not want her_. But his body was burning from within, and the taste of her was still on his lips. He could see nothing but her eyes. He could hear nothing but her voice. He had, since he had first seen her sweaty and panting in this very yard, thought of little else but her.

He wanted her. It was true. So he did not deny it. “I do.”

It seemed to take a moment for her to accept the truth of his words, and then slowly, tantalisingly, that blush of hers began to bloom on her cheeks, her neck, the slight swell of her chest. She was not rendered speechless, however, for she said, “Ser Jai—Jaime. Would you like to have lunch in my solar? I think I have had enough training for the day.”

He wondered if, under her dress, the blush continued. He wondered if he’d ever have the chance to chase it with his touch. “I should like to lunch with you, I think. And you and I,” he said, with enough heat to make her flush ever deeper, “have much to talk about.”

The maid who brought their lunch was the same one who’d attended Brienne in her tent. To her infinite virtue, the maid showed no surprise when her lady called for a lunch for two, and with him too. She merely bobbed, ducked out, and returned in short order with a tray of bread and cheeses, cold cuts and fruits, and a flagon of wine with two goblets.

It was simple fare, compared to the feasts in the past sennight. For that, Jaime was grateful. He was beginning to grow sick of fowls cooked three ways and glazed with honey or some equally ridiculous nonsense.

So they ate and ate, like two soldiers after a battle, but afterwards they grew silent once more. For all they agreed that there was much to discuss, they acted as though they were bashful youths, losing the ability to speak at the sight of their betrothed.

At last, it was his own careless tongue that broke the silence, as he asked the question that had eaten away at him for months. “Why did you agree to marry him?”

Brienne was silent for some time. Previously he had thought these long silences of hers a sign of a dull, slow mind, but he was beginning to see they were her way of gathering her thoughts. She spoke more carefully than most people he’d ever met, seemingly always worried about the impact her words could have on a conversation, just as her sword would have upon an enemy. Finally, she said, “I agreed to marry him because he was my friend.”

It was a simple answer, and he was sure she wasn’t lying, but he was equally sure there was much she wasn’t saying too. “I have many friends but I have never felt inclined to marry them.”

She shot him a look which sent a shiver of delight up his spine, and he couldn’t help but smile at her. She huffed. “He was my friend, and he was kind to me when no one else was. He said it would be our way of protecting each other from the world.”

“And when did you realise you loved him?” he asked, almost immediately wishing he could push the words back into his throat.

Brienne leaned away, affront writ on her features. “You mock me. You think I did not know that he would never love me in return? You think me foolish, or do you pity me?”

Jaime raised his hands in surrender. “I merely wondered.”

“I loved him since he told me what he—who he—desires. He trusted me with that knowledge, trusted me to be his friend, and I loved him for it.”

She sounded certain, proud almost, yet there was something about her demeanour that made him think she was ashamed, embarrassed to admit the weakness of loving someone who could not love her in return. He took her hand in his once more. “We don’t choose who we love.”

Her shoulders sagged at his words, the fight sapped out of her. After a while, she said, “Now, I love Renly like I would love my brother, if he still lived, or something close to it.” She smiled weakly. “And I know he loves me too, in his own way, though you may not believe it.”

Jaime’s breath caught, a confession stuck in his throat like a shard of bone, but he swallowed it and said, “Will your… _brother_ object to this?” And he lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles, the calluses on her palm, her wrist where the veins pulsed beneath her skin.

Brienne reddened, for what reason he couldn’t tell, though she seemed to blush all too easily. “No,” she said, clearing her throat, “no, he said he wanted me to find the happiness he couldn’t give me.”

No one had described Jaime as _happiness,_ so truly, he had no choice but to kiss her more.

He very pointedly did not think of Cersei as he did, of her jealousy, of the terrible explosion of anger should she ever discover this. He did not mention her, not once. Brienne had been shocked enough for the day, and he dreaded the possibility of her discovering his unknown sins.

It had taken him long enough to rise in her regard.

They stayed in the solar for the few hours after, merely basking in each other’s presence, in the rightness of their bodies being pressed against each other. She picked up a book, something about smithing in Old Valyria, and they lay on the sofa, with his head resting on the crook of her shoulder, her lilting voice washing over them both when he demanded to know what she was reading.

Sometimes, he would interrupt her with a kiss. She would be annoyed, and he would kiss her frown away.

Eventually, the exhaustion of the sennight at last caught up to them. Her voice faltered and he, too, began to doze. It should have been uncomfortable, curling up on the small sofa with her, but it wasn’t. He was surrounded by the smell of her: a salty, grassy scent that reminded him of the training yard. A smell he had not realised he knew, and was addicted to all the same.

The bellowing hunting horn woke them, just as the sun was inching towards the horizon. The hunting party had returned.

“It has been a lovely day,” Jaime said, quietly. It was time for them to part, he knew, but he was not ready to leave yet. Perhaps he would sneak back in, once Renly had left to be with his Knight of Flowers. He ached when he thought that she might be alone, with her body aching and her heart bleeding.

“It has,” she agreed. The smile on her face was one he had never seen before; perhaps no one had ever seen it. It felt like something already his.

Then, quicker than they could move, footsteps came close and the door blew open. “Milady!” Brienne’s handmaid exclaimed, her eyes wild. “Milady, come quick. You too, milord.”

Brienne stood up, and begrudgingly Jaime let go of her, instead shifting to sit straight on the sofa. “What is it, Lili?” she asked.

“Milady, it’s Lord Renly. Something terrible has happened, an accident, and—”

“Calm down,” Jaime said. He quite liked the steady, loyal maid, and to see her in this state unsettled even him. “Tell us. What is it?”

“He's dead. Lord Renly is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for intimate partner abuse by Cersei to Jaime, arguably dubious consent from Jaime during sex with Cersei (YMMV), and dubious consent sex between Brienne and Renly, in the context of circumstances pushing them to consummate their marriage.
> 
> Next chapter: the fallout.


	5. Widowed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renly Baratheon is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait. Life… has been a lot, to both of us.
> 
> Content warning for grief.

_Lord Renly looked handsome on the day his bannermen swore their allegiance to him. Brienne had stood beside her father and found it impossible not to remember the dance they shared a few years prior. He had looked like a prince from the storybooks, but he was not just handsome — he was gallant and more chivalrous than any man she’d ever met. Her hand still burned with the feel of his fingers around hers, when he had ignored her tears and asked her to dance._

_He had only become more beautiful in the years that had passed. Under the clear blue sky in the open courtyard of Storm’s End, he was a vision. A true prince now._

_Undoubtedly he was busy—there were richer, more important houses than Tarth that he needed to appease_ — _but that afternoon he personally came to the rooms she and her father had been assigned and asked her if she would like to see his library. An odd enough request, but she followed him, old butterflies disturbed in her stomach._

_His proposal was delivered evenly, lacking the passion of the stories, but the way he held her hand in his was a steady anchor. Even when he told her of his circumstances, he held her hand. She could feel how it shook as he explained what had happened, how his voice wavered. He had tried to change, tried to do what he knew was natural, but it was all in vain._

_It broke her heart._

_Finally, she squeezed his hand in return. She had heard of men like him before, she said to him._

_“And what do you think of men like me?”_

_“The gods saw fit to give me this face, this body,” she said, drawing each word out of her chest slowly, painfully. They had been buried there, unspoken for so long, that it felt like a taboo to lend breath to them. But thrilling all the same. “For all I do not look like a woman should, or do what a woman should do, that does not make me less of one. I cannot judge you for nature, anymore than I should be judged for mine.”_

_It was not all she wanted to say. She thought of her dreams as a child, of the fair prince of the tales, who rescued his love from danger and uncertainty, who loved her unconditionally. But Renly seemed to understand. He lifted her hand and kissed it._

_“I promise you will be under my protection. You will be free to train, and to do battle if you wish. I will not force you into the birthing bed, nor ask anything of you that you will not willingly give. And if you like, we will be friends, the greatest of all. Many marriages cannot boast that.”_

_Brienne weighed it in her mind, although the answer was quite obvious. After all, her past suitors all wanted her to stop training, and even her own father did not let her take up arms in the rebellion. She said, “We are friends, Lord Renly. And I should be honoured if I could call you husband, too.”_

* * *

_Something horrible happened._

The hours after, after Brienne’s maid came into the solar, with tears on her face and death on her lips, were chaos. _Lord Renly is dead._

Brienne had not understood at first, he could tell. He barely understood himself. How could a man die on a hunt, especially one of Robert’s hunts, which were always more food and wine and revelry than predation?

But a heartbeat passed, and when the maid—Lili, that was her name—when she did not laugh and declare it a fine jest, Brienne's blue eyes went wide, her face turning ghostly pale. “How?” she stuttered, stood, pulling herself out of Jaime’s embrace.

“I don’t know. They don’t know,” Lili cried, before she darted forward to take her mistress by the shoulders to steady her. Brienne had listed dangerously to the side; Jaime hadn’t noticed in his shock, in the coldness that sank into his bones the moment she pulled away from him.

Lili tried to press Brienne back to the sofa, but the larger woman would not be moved. " _No."_ she said, pushing her back. “Take me to him.”

So she did, and Jaime trailed along behind. He longed to reach for Brienne, comfort her—but it was not comfort that she needed, and there were too many eyes following them as they rushed to the gates.

The yard just inside the gates was full of people, the gaggling crowd of revellers and merchants, the mummer’s show halted for the sake of a more arresting sight, and the hunting party. They were gathered so tightly around the returned party that at first they could not see much. But Brienne used her strength and bulk to her advantage, pushing people aside until they broke through. Jaime followed behind in the path she cleared until she stopped suddenly in front of him. He was tall enough to see over her shoulder.

Renly was lying on a makeshift litter of two long sticks and a dirty Baratheon banner. Most of the crowd stared at him. Those that didn’t gaped at the newly-arrived Brienne. Only a few remembered to be discreet with their gawking.

The crowd parted. Brienne called her husband’s name. He did not answer, so she approached him and knelt by his side. His cheeks were rosy, his expression a peaceful sleep. His chest was still, so still.

“He’s not dead. He’s asleep. Can’t you see?” And then she touched Renly’s face and jerked back. The body was cold already; Jaime knew the truth of it from her face. But he could see no wound.

They were not the only ones who had arrived at the news. Moments after Jaime and Lili had arrived with Brienne, Ser Loras entered the courtyard with his sister at his heels. He had taken in the tableau: the crowd, Renly’s body, his wife weeping over him. Robert was by the horses, screaming loudly for his guards, for a maester, for The Stranger himself to answer for the death of his favourite brother. If he didn’t calm down soon, Jaime thought he’d become apoplectic and join Renly in death. Stannis, too, looked pale, hovering by Brienne wringing his hands.

Loras saw it all, but Jaime noticed how he lurched towards his lover, hands lifting as though to reach out before his sister grabbed them and restrained him. She leaned up to whisper something in his ear. Whatever it was she said, Loras closed his eyes, but it was the completely heartbroken look on his face that struck Jaime. He should not have to see this. Not any more than Brienne should.

A voice near Jaime’s elbow broke through it all. “My lady, I need to examine him.” Grand Maester Pycell stood there, chain clinking heavily as he tried to pull Brienne back, though he’d have more luck prying a blade off the Iron Throne.

“Brienne,” Jaime said, and caught himself. He stepped forward and placed his hand on her shoulder. “My lady, you need to let him go.”

She had one of Renly’s hands in both of her own, holding it against her forehead. She did not seem to hear him.

“The maester cannot see to him if you keep holding him,” said a voice, a young one. Lady Margaery. Jaime had never been so grateful to the girl.

There was a long pause, a life and death captured by precious seconds. Until finally, _finally_ , Brienne let go of Renly’s hand and stood.

Stood. And turned. And left.

* * *

“The maester said it was poison,” Lili said. “Sweetsleep, three pinches or more.”

Brienne turned away from the window and nodded to Lili. “Thank you.”

“What can I do for you, milady? You should take supper, at least. Do you want anything in particular? And a bath, yes? A hot one?”

Brienne shook her head. “That will be all, Lili.”

“I’ll bring a washcloth and basin, then. And I’ll bring something easy for you to eat.”

Brienne said nothing. Let the maid do as she wished, if it helped her.

“You _must_ eat, or I will bring Ser Jaime here and he can feed you.”

Jaime would never see her like this. Brienne said, “I won’t starve myself.”

Lili rolled her eyes. Brienne did not see it, having turned to watch the waterline again. She found the slow roll of trade galleys into the Blackwater soothing, the quick zip of skiffs through the waves calming. But she could hear Lili’s censure in her voice. “I make no empty threats, milady,” the maid said. Then, a little quieter, “They’re trying to find who did it. I’ll tell you what else I hear, later.”

* * *

It did not take long for them to question him. There was no warning. He was roused early in the morning by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Balon Swann in their full Kingsguard regalia. It was a blatant show of force on Robert’s part, but then again, Jaime had publicly threatened the king the morning of the hunt. He should have expected as much.

But it was not Robert who died, and so Jaime said to them, nude in his bed, “I only kill kings. Lords are beneath me.”

The two knights exchanged a glance. “The poisoned wine Lord Renly drank was the King’s. He gifted it to his brother, skin and all.”

Jaime clicked his tongue. “I see. And you think because my cousin Cleos was Robert’s cupbearer, that I am somehow responsible for Renly’s inclination to drink? Your torturers aren’t very good at their job, then. Cuz has always been a craven little mongrel, much to my Aunt’s shame. He should crack soon and you shall get the truth from him.”

“You threatened His Grace.”

“Would be stupid to threaten him if I’d already poisoned his wine. Even for me.” Jaime leaned back and pulled his blanket up, though it was a warm morning. “Waste no time on me. I am not leaving the keep anytime soon.”

And it was true, like everything else he told the whitecloaks that morning. He would not leave the city, would not leave the keep to go even so far as the Kingswood until Brienne would see him. But twice a day since they had watched Pycelle’s men take Renly’s body away, he was turned away at her door.

It would hurt less if he had forgotten how her eyes had looked, wet with tears. He had thought himself capable of consoling her, yet she had refused him, preferring the company of her husband’s ghost.

Jaime could not truly blame her. Renly’s ghost was likely more attentive to her than he had ever been in his life.

* * *

The Queen visited Brienne just as she was surrounded by her maids and a seamstress who refused to reveal who paid her, even though her honey-brown hair betrayed her Reach lineage. The seamstress tutted and measured, put up a bolt of black fabric and another, equally black, and just the same to Brienne’s eyes.

All Brienne’s clothes were either not black, or the wrong kind of black. In her quarters she stuck to her darker breeches and tunics, but the seven days of prayers had passed halfway and Renly’s funeral was to come soon. He was to be laid to rest in the tomb beneath the Sept of Baelor, where all the Targaryens of old were interred. When the time came, King Robert would be entombed there too. Storm’s End was not grand enough for the King’s favourite brother.

Brienne hadn’t known what she would wear, but this morning the seamstress had barged in and announced her quest: to sew the widow an appropriate funeral gown.

And so it was in amidst that chaos, with Brienne only in her shift and naught else, that Queen Cersei strode in.

She was in her usual red, though in deference to the occasion her hair was pulled back into a modest twist rather than left free to cascade down her back. She observed the sight in front of her—Brienne standing in her shift while seamstresses pinned a muslin gown into place. “I am sorry for your loss, Lady Baratheon,” she said, though the apology did not quite reach her eyes.

“Your grace,” Brienne said, without curtseying. She found she did not have the energy for such niceties these days, and besides she was tangled in at least ten measuring ribbons.

Cersei noticed the lack of gratitude, and so all affectation of remorse and sympathy fell from her own face, too. “You have been making quite the connections since you arrived in King’s Landing. Some might say they were quite advantageous.”

It was not difficult to divine the reason behind Cersei’s visit, then. Brienne had hardly been a sociable lady in court. “Your brother is a friend to me,” she said.

Cersei glanced about the room. “Leave us.”

They left, though Lili did not excuse herself into the hallway as the other women did. Instead she made towards the bedroom, though before she closed the door behind her she turned back to Brienne with a pointed look and said, “Milady, I’ll be in here if you need.”

She had been especially territorial lately, to Brienne’s infinite annoyance. No matter how kindly meant it was, it made her feel like she was a child again, with Septa Roelle haunting her every waking moment. All she wanted was some time alone.

It seemed she would have to settle for time alone with Cersei, for the moment. “Thank you, Lili.”

As soon as the door closed, Cersei gestured at the chaise, as though she was the host and Brienne the guest.

Brienne did not move.

Cersei sighed. “I will not take much of your time.”

“Then I do not need to sit, though you are welcome to if you wish.”

Cersei did not. It was clear that the queen did not want to have to look up at Brienne. She dropped her arms, one hand gripped loosely around the opposite wrist and began to speak, ignoring Brienne’s refusal to follow her instructions. “You have become close with my brother these last few sennights.”

It was a simple statement, and true enough. There was no way for Brienne to deny it, though she had not spent any time with him since… He had pulled her away from Renly, she could remember that much, but her memory of what had happened after was hazy. “He...” Brienne started, trying to gather her thoughts together, but that, too, had been hard lately. She could not get her mind to focus properly. And she was so tired. So she turned to the explanation she had given Renly, though it was woefully inadequate. “He has been a friend to me.”

“A friend,” Cersei repeated, as though the words were foreign on her tongue. Perhaps they were. Brienne could see no true friends among the nobility who followed the queen around, merely sycophants and thralls.

Cersei levelled her gaze at Brienne. “Tell me, do you fuck _all_ your friends, or just the rich ones?”

It was so ludicrous Brienne could hardly keep the confusion from her face. It was the first feeling that had broken through in days.

Cersei smiled serenely, holding her hand at a distance to inspect her perfect nails. “It’s really very impressive, an ugly girl nobody had ever heard of, from some backwards little Stormlands island marrying the King’s brother, but even I underestimated your ambition.” At that she looked up, a triumphant look on her face, like she had caught Brienne in the middle of some dastardly crime. “I wonder what Robert will do to you when he finds out you killed your husband.”

“What?”

“I don’t blame you. Renly probably seemed quite the catch back in Storm’s End, especially for someone as ugly as you, but once you arrived here in the capital you realised you should have set your eyes on a far loftier target. I am told your house is in quite dire straits. Lannister gold would ease many of your struggles, and my brother might seem intimidating, but to those who know him well he is a soft touch.”

“I d-didn’t kill my husband.” The stuttered words summoned Renly’s image, his laughter when Brienne had confessed her difficulty in calling him what he had been: her husband. She had failed him, once more. She could only claim him hers after he was dead.

Cersei frowned in concern, though Brienne could see now that it was an act. “But you quarrelled with Renly the night before the hunt.”

“We didn’t—” but she stopped. They had quarrelled. Before everything, before their failed attempt, she had fought with him. There was no conversation in King’s Landing that could ever be private. Servants wandered in and out of her rooms constantly throughout the day, their passageways hidden just behind the walls. Lili, Anna, any of the girls, they could have heard everything. Maybe they had even seen…

But she hadn't killed him.

Cersei smirked. “Perhaps Robert would believe you if you were with child, but we _both_ know you’re not… Or if you are, it is not because Renly shared your bed. But Jaime… An afternoon, all alone with him. Here in this very room.” She smoothed a hand down the sofa, picked at a bit of lint. “I wonder if you fucked on this couch.”

“He did not—we did not—”

Cersei straightened herself. “But you wish he had.”

Brienne didn’t need to answer. From the smirk on the queen’s face, no denial would suffice.

* * *

Jaime’s heart soared when Brienne, instead of her maid, opened the door. She was in a plain mourning gown that could be made of shadows, its dye a deep, deep hue. The black the slightest bit tinged with blue. Her pale, freckled skin stood stark against the fabric, but it made her look pallid. Ill. The dark bruise on her face had faded some, the edges now a greenish yellow, but there was something about her eyes, tired and sad and… there was something else he couldn’t quite identify.

“Brienne,” he breathed, glad, still, that she had finally opened the door. She had not allowed him entry every other time he had tried to visit, leaving Lili to turn him away with her firm, no-nonsense manner. “May I come in?”

She still stood in the doorway. He could see the battle in her eyes: let him in her chambers, thus violating decorum, or walk with him and be seen by the court? A better man would keep his distance, walk away. Save her from having to choose.

But he had stayed away as long as he could. And he had never held himself in such high regard.

So he waited for her to decide, knowing that the longer he lingered, the more likely he would be seen by someone at her door. He knew she understood it, too, and counted on her sense of propriety to spirit him into her chambers. It was loathsome, dishonourable even, but it was preferable than giving her up.

At last, she stepped aside. “Very well.”

Jaime entered, and so close to her, smelling the salt on her skin, he could not help but to lean in and press a kiss on her cheek, just by the corner of her lips.

“Ser—”

He manoeuvred her and the door, letting it shut with a thud and pushing her to the heavy wooden flat of it. “That won’t do,” he said, kissing her. He felt brazen, somehow. It was all very improper, yet still more proper than it had ever been before, now that she was a widow and not a wife.

Her hands were flat on his chest, and he revelled under her touch until she pushed—not strongly enough to count it as a shove, but firm enough that her intent was clear—and he backed away, letting his fingers barely caress her waist.

“Jaime,” she breathed, closing her eyes. He leaned in, not to kiss her this time, but to bury his nose in the tender line of her neck. These days of separation from her had been hard. He’d wanted nothing more than to be there for her, to be with her, and yet still they were kept apart.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, her pulse beating wildly beneath his lips.

“Don’t—can we talk?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Please.”

He looked up, searching her face. She was upset, yes, but this was not grief or mourning. Something had happened. “What is it?”

She pulled herself out of his arms, though she kept hold of his hand, fingertips loosely interlaced with his as she led him to the sofa.

Somehow, it felt much less comfortable today, as they sat side by side there. Too narrow, not narrow enough. He could feel the air between them vibrate with Brienne’s reluctance to relax into his side.

She leaned forward and poured water into a goblet, and as she did so, she said, “Your sister was here yesterday.”

His stomach tightened and he drew away from Brienne a fraction. “What did she say?”

Brienne grew red, then said, with great effort, “She accused me of having bedded you.”

It was a great insult to Brienne’s honour, yet Jaime could not truly deny that he would have tried to bed her by now, had Renly not died. But he could not say that, not without reigniting her grief, so he said instead, “Many have speculated, but I didn’t know she would…” He trailed away. That, too, was a lie as bald-faced as _I do not want Brienne of fucking Tarth._ Cersei would. Of course she would.

“She also said I killed Renly. Jaime, I did not kill my husband.”

“I know,” Jaime said. But had the poison been passed any other way than through Cousin Cleos, they would have pointed their fingers at her. At present it was likely Cleos was a few fingernails short of a whole man, hanging upside down in one of the Black Cells. His nerves should fray soon, and then the truth would expose the true killer and release Brienne from any accusations.

Still, there was a line of tension between Brienne’s eyes that betrayed the depths of her anxiety. “It doesn’t matter that you know. If she thinks I did—”

He cut off her speech then, perhaps a little too harshly. “She doesn’t think you killed Renly. She knows you didn’t.” It could only be her, after all. Jaime wished it was not, wished Cousin Cleos would lie and name another, but he knew the truth of it.

The frown between her brows only deepened as she tried to comprehend the truth: the queen had lied and threatened her with those lies. “Then why would she cast such aspersions? Does she hate me so?”

“Pay her no mind,” Jaime said, sighing. “She is merely jealous.”

“I have given her nothing to be jealous of,” Brienne said quickly, her voice a notch higher than it usually was. It gave him pause.

All of a sudden, he felt that it was not enough to simply hold her hand. He longed to take her in his arms and protect her from Cersei, from her grief, from the world that still mocked her when she hurt like this. He did not, however. She needed to be listened to, and he had already made the mistake of stifling her once tonight.

So he waited.

The words were a struggle, each and every one of them, her cadence slower than usual, but she spoke anyway. “She could not be jealous. She is the queen, she is the most beautiful woman in the land, and I am... she is—she has everything.”

 _Not everything_. _Not any more_. The little voice in Jaime’s head turned his blood to ice. He was suddenly, acutely aware of the still-healing bite mark on his hand, the one holding Brienne’s hand tightly while she fought back her tearsl she was braver and more honourable than any person he’d ever met.

She had no idea of the depths of his dishonour. She thought him good, and he had lied to her. How was he any better than Cersei?

The confession was one he regretted the moment he said it: “You have taken me from her.”

And still, still she did not understand, for she said, “Are twins usually so close, that she felt like… this”—she squeezed his hand—“was theft?”

He could agree with her, claim that Cersei was merely a possessive sister. She would believe him, the same way she believed him to be good. But he wasn’t. He would never be, if he did not get the truth out.

It was like lancing a boil, all the putrefaction bursting out into the world. He could not stop talking now. “When we were children we thought we were like the Targaryens of old. We said we would marry, like Aegon and Visenya, forging our souls together once more before the gods. Two halves of a whole.” His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to say the rest. “We never married, but I have been hers in every way but that.”

She let go of his hand as though it was an asp. Her frame shrunk into the far edge of the narrow sofa, and on her face was an expression he’d never seen, flashing with betrayal, shame, disgust, all the things he had expected he would see. She looked at him as though he was a stranger, or perhaps the Stranger himself.

He leaned forward. “The night before the hunt, she asked something of me that I could not give her. I left her, despite all her pleas, and on the day of the hunt—”

“You kissed me,” Brienne said, her tone one of accusation. Did she think herself to be Cersei’s replacement? She could never be one. She was too bright, too much; she would never fit into the narrow, dark corner of his heart that Cersei had once occupied.

He nearly laughed in incredulity, but her frown stopped him.

“I have not lied to you,” he said to her. It felt like a plea. What was he begging for? “I wanted you. I still do. But Cersei…” He paused, trying to explain the nature of their relationship to her. He wanted Brienne to not only know, but understand.

That was what he was begging for: her absolution.

“I have loved her for longer than I have known how to speak,” he eventually said, and he knew those were not the right words to say. She did not reach forward, did not offer him reassurance. She was burrowed into the far corner of the sofa, fearful, betrayed.

She was quiet, too. He would rather have her wrath than this. Would that she screamed at him, embraced him, struck him.

But she was quiet, and at long last, she broke their eye contact, turning away and scrunching her eyes shut.

She could not even look at him.

He stood, then, frozen somewhere dark and vital inside his chest so that each word spoken was like a dagger to the heart. “My lady, I have troubled you. I will leave you be. But understand that in this entire world, you are the only one who knows all my secrets, one on which my life hangs.”

It was some time, an eon during which his lungs could not draw breath, his heart dared not beat. But finally Brienne raised her head. “We don’t choose who we love,” she said, and though it did not sound like a threat, it did not sound like benediction, either. “Good night, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. He must not cry. “Good night, Lady Brienne.”

He wanted to beg for one last kiss, but he knew it would be a cruelty to both of them. He left without another word, and it was only when the door shut behind him, with such dreadful finality in the click of the lock, that the tears fell. Odd. He did not cry, when he walked away from Cersei, yet now he felt as though he’d lost a lifetime’s worth of happiness.

Brienne had called him that. Happiness. In the end, he was just a disappointment.

* * *

Brienne woke to a pool of blood.

Her blood came the same day each moon, as if it was beckoned by the moon itself, but the past sennight had all the days and nights blurring together—one misfortune after another, a bedding and a kiss and secrets, all the secrets—that she’d forgotten to prepare for it and wear a rag before she slept.

Renly had said that their attempt would not result in a babe, yet she still felt a sinking in her heart. It was not as if she wanted Renly’s child, or his castle, yet she wanted it to mean something. Something she could take with her, to remind her that in the end, it was not all for nothing.

That meaning was now staining the sheets, and soon the scullery maids would beat it out of the fabric with a stick. It would run pink down to the sewers, where the rats lived, where the waste of all in the city would flow into the sea.

She was on the verge of tears when Lili knocked. Before Brienne could tell her to come in, she strode in anyway with a fresh basin of water and a clean washcloth. She saw the blood, and with the unflappable attitude of one who’d seen her mistress struck on the head in a melee, said, “I’ll call for a hot bath.”

Lili set the basin and washcloth down on the bed, next to Brienne, and drew the curtains of the bed closed so she could clean herself. As Brienne washed her face and then the crux of her thighs, Lili’s hand entered through the gap between the curtains with a fresh robe, rags, and smallclothes.

“Pardon, milady, but the bath will take a while.”

Brienne nodded, not trusting her voice to stay steady, knowing that the maid could hardly see her through the drawn curtains. But in truth she was thankful for the delay. She needed the moment to compose herself, almost overwhelmed with the convoluted bubble of feelings within her. It hadn’t yet been a week since Renly had been here with her and they had tried… Tried and failed, the evidence of their failure was coating her thighs and sinking into the mattress. Everything they had struggled with that night had come to nothing. Nothing but blood and mess and pain.

Her body moved as she let the thoughts percolate, pulling on the rags and smallclothes, and the robe on top. What she would not give to talk to someone who would listen, who would understand, who knew the truth of her marriage. She hadn’t realised the depth of her loneliness until she had found Ser Jaime, not knowing that she was merely borrowing him from his sister.

She opened the curtain and walked to the writing desk. She should write to her father, tell him that she was widowed and without child, tell him… that after her mourning was over, he should find a match for her—a good match for an ugly widow.

Yet the thought of marrying another man who did not love her turned her stomach. She was lucky, with Renly, despite how she had felt in the latter months of their short union. He had ignored her, but he had not been malicious and he had admired her skills with the sword. Other men… other men would do worse, would try to beat her into a shape that she was not. More so than Renly had done, at least.

No, she would not marry again. She should counsel father to sire a son with whichever woman was in his bed and name him a Tarth. Perhaps Brienne could raise him as her own; her father was not a young man any more and would be lucky to see any son through to his majority. She could be a warden Evenstar until her brother would be old enough. Mayhaps it would be enough. She had been alone all these years, and that had always been enough.

It should be enough.

She dipped her pen in ink, hovering over the paper. It was hard to start, to find the words to greet her father.

The door to her chambers slammed open, and in her shock, Brienne shook a drop of ink loose from the nib. It fell, blotting the pristine paper.

“Where is the woman?” Robert Baratheon’s voice boomed from the solar, frightening her for a second time in as many seconds. It left her heart hammering wildly in her chest, beating a staccato rhythm that left her feeling strangely faint. She was not dressed to receive anyone, let alone the king. Behind her the sheets were still on the bed, stained with her moon’s blood—the damning evidence of her failure as his goodsister.

She did not want to do this.

She could not do this.

And yet it seemed she must.

Brienne could hear Lili’s voice beyond the bedroom door, heard the ever-so-slightly disrespectful lilt to her words that she reserved for most of Brienne’s visitors these past few days, though with the door closed she couldn’t hear exactly what the maid had said.

But Brienne had no trouble hearing Robert’s reply. “Well get her out here, and be quick about it.”

She placed the quill back in the holder. Before Lili could come in relay the demand she had already overheard, she stood, made sure her robe was firmly secured, and entered the solar.

If Robert would interrupt her mourning, then there was no point in standing on ceremony for him. Besides, she suspected her filmy silken gown would be armour enough against the King. His rapacious behaviour since taking the Iron Throne had left him rather soft around the middle and slow besides. What could he do to her that hadn’t already been done?

Robert did not look well. His clothes were as fine and elegant as usual, though the dark black of mourning, but it seemed he had dressed himself because half the buttons were undone and the other half were misaligned. His face was red—from anger or wine, Brienne could not tell.

Her father had once told her he would end her training with Ser Goodwin if she would not learn her lessons. _Being a good warrior is not all it takes to make a good ruler_ , he said, and it was only now that she saw the truth in his words. Robert was not a good king. He was too impulsive, too reckless. He could not bring peace to the castle—Lili reliably informed Brienne that there was much infighting amongst the serving girls he had taken to bed in the last year, some of whom had birthed healthy, black-haired babes. How could such a man bring peace to the country?

And the land… Brienne had tried to appeal to Renly, and Renly to Robert, but the Crown still had yet to send aid to the Stormlands. Instead, seven days of revelry, for the king and the new queen, and Brienne had heard that the coin came straight from the Lannister mines. A loan. No lion would be so generous as to gift anyone that much coin.

Would that Father had a say on who could sit on the Iron Throne. But their house was middling, at most. No minor house, big enough that her marriage to Renly had been advantageous but appropriate. But the Evenstar was no Warden of the East.

“Well, at least you don’t look _too_ happy about your husband,” Robert said, raking his eyes up and down, taking in the messy sight of Brienne.

She had neither the time nor the energy to dissect that greeting, so instead she curtseyed and asked, “How may I help you, your grace?”

“I want you to explain what you’ve been up to with the Kingslayer,” he said without hesitation. It was instantly clear to Brienne that he was angry, deeply angry, and had probably already judged her guilty before he’d even thought to approach her with this unthinkable accusation.

But then it wasn’t so unthinkable, was it?

“I have not seen him since the hunt returned,” she said eventually, and as honestly as she could. The lie felt plain and wrong in her mouth.

Robert could see the lie, for he pried further, “He’s been knocking on your door every night.”

“I’ve never let him in.” Let this man never know of Jaime’s visit, of Jaime’s confession. He was not so innocent a man that he deserved to know the sins committed against him.

Robert cocked his head, watching her. Lesser people would have bowed under his stare and told him all he wanted to hear, but she was determined.

A breeze blew from the open windows, fluttering the edges of her robe; gooseflesh bloomed all across her neck.

She was suddenly acutely aware of her vulnerability here, dressed in nothing but a robe, slippers and her moonsblood-soaked smallclothes. What little confidence she had vanished under the morning wind. She had no armour, no sword. Nothing to protect herself from him but her wits and her words, and they had never been her weapon of choice.

If he struck her, she would have to stop herself from fighting back. Bad enough the court thought she was unfaithful to her husband—though she had strayed, hadn’t she, strayed that one afternoon before the hunting party returned—she did not want to know what the punishment would be for striking a king.

“And before the hunt? Everyone and their fucking mother knows what you did in that tent at the melee. Gods know what Renly was thinking, letting you compete. If you were my wife I would’ve tied you to the bed before I saw you standing there in my armour. What a disgrace!”

His words should have been more hurtful. They should have cut her to the bone. With her husband dead and her father leagues away, the king was not only a king, but her guardian by law. He had every right to treat her as he wished.

But she was the daughter of a lord, and heir to her house. She was Renly’s widow. And to Robert’s knowledge, she could be carrying the heir to Storm’s End. The babe, who had never existed and would never exist, was her sole protector against the king’s ire.

The realisation struck Brienne, then. She hadn’t considered it, so deep in her sorrow, but there had been no announcement of Stannis’ new seat in Storm’s End. They were waiting, not in mourning, but in anticipation. Renly’s new bride might be with child.

The farce of a marriage still protected Brienne, even now.

Not for long, though. Soon, gossip from the scullery, where her sheets would go, would reach the Spider, and from him Robert would learn the truth, and what would protect her then?

Still, Brienne chose her next words as carefully as she could. “Ser Jaime was simply looking out for a friend. Renly would have liked to have helped me but he was called away by a pressing matter. I promise you nothing untoward happened in the tent. Ser Jaime was a gentleman and I was… I was in no condition to be anything other than grateful to him for his assistance.”

“You women. You’re all the same,” Robert huffed, not placated by her words for a moment. There was an unsteadiness to him—he had listed to the side a little throughout their conversation—that seemed to indicate he was already well into his cups. “You never say what you _mean_.”

His eyes alighted on the flagon of wine still sitting on the table in the solar, though it had sat untouched since the news of Renly’s death, and he stumbled forward to pour himself a generous helping. “Gods, I am so thirsty—” he took a long drink from his cup before promptly spitting it all out, spraying the table with red mist “—what the fuck is this?!”

He wiped his face with the back of his free hand and inspected the liquid in the goblet. “Did someone poison this wine too?”

Brienne should have found something he could use to clean up his face with, but she didn’t. She crossed her arms across her chest instead. “Forgive me, your grace,” she said, though she felt cold all over. “That was old wine. In my grief, I have neglected my duty to care for these quarters, and I have had no taste for wine.”

It was true enough. Wine reminded her too much of Renly. Lili had brought Brienne water or juice, instead, and the flagon sat ignored for days, until Robert picked it up. He was now wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Insolent, ungrateful woman. I should throw you down your family mine.”

It was then that Lili appeared with a tray of tea things in her hands. “Begging pardon, your grace, but milady is ill this morning. I’ve brought the ginger tea to settle her stomach, and a bath to soothe her pains.” She was bowing low, her shoulders trembling a little with her fear yet she planted her feet firmly on a spot just inside the room, not to be moved. Behind her, a gaggle of maids carried pails of water, for her bath, all wearing expressions of mingled curiosity and fear.

But Robert did not order Lili’s execution, or strike her down. “You’re with child?” he demanded Brienne.

Brienne swallowed hard, and her voice wavered as she said, “It is too early to tell.” Consciously, she moved her hands to curl around her stomach, though it was flat and very much childless. She was acutely aware that the proof of her lie was laid bare in the bed through the very door Lili had entered. That Robert would see straight through the farce if he took just a few small steps into the next room.

“Is it Renly’s?” he challenged, his light blue eyes flashing dangerously. “Or is it the Kingslayer’s?”

“I have only shared my bed with Renly, your grace,” Brienne said, and hardened, glancing only once at the tray of tea things Lili had brought with her. Her maid was quick to think of such a ruse; if she should be so quick then Brienne could too. Before she could overthink it, she said, “It is easy to remember when it is just the one.”

Brienne glanced at Robert’s fist—it opened, and closed, back and forth—and knew that soon his restraint would snap. She curtseyed, as deeply as she could without exposing herself in the flimsy robe. Robert looked at her with narrow eyes.

“I beg your pardon, your grace, but I truly am unwell. If you will allow me to bathe—”

He grunted. “Keep me appraised of the babe’s growth,” he said, and left the room.

When his footsteps were no longer audible, Lili sagged to the floor, cradling the tea things in her lap. “Milady, it might be good if you don’t insult more kings in the future.”

“You didn’t have to rescue me,” Brienne said.

“What was I to do, let him strike you and endanger the babe?” Before Brienne could deliver a denial, she waved at the maids outside. “Well, come in then. Fill milady’s tub for her!”

They scurried in and filled the tub. Brienne took the tray from Lili, setting it on the table, and offered her hand to help the maid stand up. She murmured, “You’ve been a friend, Lili.”

Lili looked away, her ears pink, but she said, “I’ll burn the sheets later.”

By the end of the day, the whole castle had heard the news: Lady Brienne was carrying Lord Renly’s heir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to Luthien and Samirant for their help, and to you, for reading.


	6. Courted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the truth comes to light, Brienne makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter before the epilogue, which has been fully written and only waiting for some final edits. Thank you for your patience, and we hope you persevere in these trying times.
> 
> As usual, our thanks to Luthien and Samirant for looking this over.

Jaime and Tyrion had taken to sneaking into unused guest chambers to break their fast, if only to avoid their father and sister and goodbrother. Jaime had not been able to eat much, however; it was as though he had left his appetite behind in Brienne’s rooms when she had asked him to leave. From what Lili had been telling Tyrion, and Tyrion had been telling Jaime, Brienne was not faring well, either.

She was with child. It had dawned on him a few hours after he heard of it that he perhaps should have been a little more surprised, but he was not. Now he merely wondered if it was hard on her, to bear a child of a dead man—if it would be healthy for her to eat so little.

His own mother had died in her birthing bed. Yes, Brienne was no Joanna Lannister, but then…

No. It would not do well to think of such things.

“You’re distracted,” Tyrion said, squinting. “No, worse. You’re _pining._ Don’t tell me it’s in fact your child and not Renly’s?”

Gods, that was… He swallowed the hunk of bread that caught in his throat at the thought, dry and heavy and painful. “No, it is not mine,” he said truthfully, though he had to thump his chest to force the food down properly and get his heart beating the proper rhythm. 

Tyrion was watching him over the rim of his cup, one eyebrow raised in exactly the kind of all-knowing, maniacal expression that he had taken to adopting any time he wanted to be _particularly_ infuriating and act like he knew more about the ways of love and romance than Jaime.

“It’s not!” Jaime said, snatching the cup away from his brother so he could wash down the bread. He grimaced at the taste of wine, having expected the same berry juice he usually had in the morning, but he drank it up anyway. Spite was a powerful motivator.

“You wish it was, though.”

Tyrion’s statement brought to mind the same scenes that had haunted him these past few days, of plush lips and muscular legs and bright blue eyes hazy with pleasure. He lifted his near-empty goblet to his lips, not to drink but to hide his face from Tyrion. “I wish Lady Brienne could have a day without people speculating what happens in her bed. She is a good woman.”

Tyrion reclaimed his cup and refilled his wine, watching Jaime’s face carefully. “You’re remarkably defensive today. Do you have a guilty conscience? Would you like to confess your sins? I am no septon, but I’d wager I’d keep your secrets safer than the High Septon ever would.”

Jaime scowled. Sometimes he wished his brother weren’t quite so small—he rather wished he could box the boy about the ears for his cheek. Because of course he could not tell Tyrion about Cersei. It would be unfair to place the burden of that knowledge on him. He had already disappointed too many people. He could not bear the scorn of his brother as well.

Tyrion pushed, anyway, and asked, “Is it your quarrel with your lady love? Her maid is awfully worried, you know.”

“She is not—” Jaime began, and stopped. The denial did not come to him. Though he was unsure if his feelings were love, he knew it was no mere dalliance. Words escaped him when he called on them to describe what he felt for Brienne. Barbed insults came easily to Jaime, yet poetry… poetry escaped him. Tyrion had always been the wordsmith of the family and it frustrated Jaime to no end to be rendered dumb in the face of his feelings. He huffed and pushed his plate of half-eaten eggs away from him.

Jaime didn’t need to see Tyrion’s face to see that his brother already considered this a victory. Frankly he was tired of _both_ his siblings treating every conversation, every word as a competition to be won or lost.

It was possible that he did not give his brother enough credit, however. Perhaps Tyrion saw the foul look on Jaime’s face and took pity on him, for the next thing he said wasn’t a continuation of his interrogation, but a change of subject instead: “Cousin Cleos has held up remarkably well under the pressure, don’t you think?”

It was strange to watch his brother flounder so in his desperate attempt to shift the conversation. 

Yet Tyrion continued on regardless, “I doubt any torturer within these walls is half as adept at wheedling truths out of him as our aunt Genna.”

Jaime snorted. Aunt Genna was always judged for her Frey husband, but she had more wit than Uncle Kevan, and betimes more sense than Father. “Yet he admitted to putting the poison in the wineskin. If he was so strong, he would simply deny everything.”

“I wonder who it is he’s protecting,” Tyrion said, sitting back in his chair as he steepled his fingers in front of his face in contemplation. Squished in against the cushions as he was, with his baby face and his impossibly mature expression he looked quite comical.

Averting his eyes, Jaime said, carefully, “Robert has not made many friends, these last few months.”

“You’re not fond of him, are you?” Tyrion asked, and before Jaime could protest, Tyrion raised a hand to silence him. “No, everyone has heard of your threat to Robert.” His gaze was measured now, calculating. It was odd. He was such a young boy, yet he remained utterly calm as he considered whether his brother had attempted to kill yet another king.

“You seem to be missing your own white cloak, brother, since you are so keen on interrogating me today. A word of warning to you if that is the case: celibacy is not as glamorous as it is in the tales you love so.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Oh calm down, Jaime. I’m not saying it was _you_.”

It burst out of him, then, all of a sudden; a truth he had held in secret: “It could have been.”

That, of all things, seemed to render Tyrion speechless. Not an easy feat by any stretch.

But Jaime took no pleasure in the victory. Instead his heart pounded painfully in his chest, and his face and hands felt oddly cold. “Cers—” he began, but his voice cracked midway through the word and died, as though some witch had plucked his voice from his throat. He coughed and swallowed and looked to the high, vaulted stoned ceiling. When he found his voice, he could only whisper hoarsely. “She asked me to kill Robert. I refused.”

Tyrion leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Why on earth would she want you to do that?”

Jaime knew the question was a fair one, and were their positions reversed he would have asked it himself, but he felt paralysed, unable to speak for fear, or for worry. Or maybe it was anger. He did not know. Perhaps it was all of them. Whatever it was gripped tightly around his chest, his throat, leaving him feeling a little lightheaded.

For once, Tyrion was tactful enough not to push, or perhaps he was merely musing out loud, for he said, “Then again, it is our sweet sister we’re talking about. Who knows what manner of schemes she has in mind?”

“Yes,” Jaime managed to choke out, “who knows indeed?”

“Though, to be sure, if you had done as she bid you wouldn’t have gotten the wrong Baratheon. I expect you are glad it was our stupid cousin instead?”

He couldn’t be glad for it. He couldn’t be glad for any of it. It felt like it was all his fault, somehow. That he had had the opportunity to prevent this all from happening and instead he had stepped back and done nothing, thinking it would ease his troubles, only to have nothing _but_ trouble land at his feet.

Tyrion swirled his wine in that obnoxious way he learned from that one season they spent in the Arbor. “If you _had_ done it, you would have been complicit. You would soon lose your head, and your lady paramour would still be wedded. Now, you are innocent and Lady Brienne is a widow ripe for—”

“Finish that sentence, brother, and you’ll find yourself without a tongue.” An empty threat, the both of them knew it, but Tyrion stopped, anyway, and busied himself with slicing the cheese.

“How long until Cuz breaks, do you think?” Tyrion asked instead.

Jaime shrugged. “I expect we’ll hear something soon enough. Either they will break him or they will _break_ him. In any case we’ll hear Robert’s blustering outrage well before we get the full story, you can be sure of that.”

He turned out to be right. He and Tyrion went their separate ways after breakfast, him to the practice yard and Tyrion to the library. He’d hoped that perhaps Brienne would be there—it would have given him much comfort to _see_ her, even if he was never to talk to her again—but it seemed her mourning and her _condition_ kept her to her rooms. Still, he found that schooling his squires into the dust could still lift his spirits, and when they all begged for mercy, he got his satisfaction beating the stuffing out of the practice dummies.

He was onto his second straw knight by the time a different Lannister cousin found him. This one was another of his many squires, but he was still too young to be anything more than a cupbearer, so he had been saved from Jaime’s ire earlier. Lancel was a few years Tyrion’s junior, though already twice his height; he would be lucky to have a third of Tyrion’s intellect. But he had the Lannister look—blond and pretty—and he had inherited Kevan’s loyalty. 

“Ser Jaime,” he said with a deep bow, voice harsh with exertion. “There is news.”

Jaime stayed his sword and stepped away from the dummy. He readjusted his grip on the sword, an anchor when everything in his life was adrift. Lancel eyed it, warily, but managed to call on some hidden cache of bravery within and looked up.

Jaime could tell already, from his eyes, but the boy delivered the blow nonetheless: “Her Grace is under arrest.”

* * *

“What do you mean ‘The queen is _arrested_ ’?” Brienne hissed at Lili, her heart pounding in her chest so hard she thought it would crack her ribs from the inside.

“Ask anyone!” Lili said, leaning in closer still. “It’s all over the castle. They say she meant to kill her husband.”

How reckless. How foolish. And yet, Brienne thought, was it less reckless than her tryst with Ser Jaime? “But it was Renly who died,” she said.

“A mistake, they say. The Frey cousin put all the poison in one skin, and His Grace gifted it to Lord Renly,” Lili said. “The king’s furious, you know. He’s called for her head.”

One senseless death would beget another. Was that how it was to be, then? Tywin Lannister would not stand idly by and let his daughter be murdered. How many more? How many more would die, before these great houses settled the score between them?

“No more gossip,” Brienne said, suddenly weary. “Not this morning.” She sighed and pulled the veil over her face. If she could not be pretty for Renly even at his funeral, then she could at least conceal her offensive face.

This would be her last chance to look upon her husband. She tried not to think of his face and how grey it had been when she last saw it. Tried not to think of the eyes painted on stone that had surely been placed on his own eyes, of the Silent Sisters milling about, of the smell of incense and perfume to mask his decay.

She still had not visited him. It was only her unending stay in her own quarters that sheltered her from the scornful comments. Should not the widow pray by his side? How undutiful, how unworthy.

But today, Renly would be entombed beneath the Sept. So Brienne had put on the new gown by the Reach seamstress; it fit her better than most gowns she’d worn for some ceremony or tradition, and she somehow looked almost, _almost_ a proper lady. Still, no gown, no matter how pretty, could ease the ache in her heart at the thought of her husband forever alone, in the dark, never to be seen again.

A knock on the door. Lili went to open it, and in came Stannis Baratheon, his long face at last fitting the occasion. “Lady Brienne,” he greeted. “May I walk with you to the Sept?”

It was a kindness. She was a Baratheon, still, and thus under their protection. And, Brienne thought, at least this Baratheon was unlikely to strike up much of a conversation with her. “Yes, thank you, Lord Stannis,” she said, and though he did not offer his arm, nor did she take his, they walked side by side to the gates where a litter awaited.

“I hope you are well, as is your child,” Stannis said.

“Thank you,” she said. “I am.” Brienne was worried he would, despite her earlier estimation of him, question her more, but he fell quiet after that.

And quiet they stayed, even during the ride on the litter, up the winding stairs that led to the Sept of Baelor, and all through the funeral. The septon said some rather nice things and some prayers or other, but Brienne felt only the stifling summer heat in her black dress, and she could hear nothing but echoes of the sermon under the Sept’s domed ceiling. Her eyes were fixed on Renly’s body, and the longer she looked at it, it seemed less and less like him. When they finally shrouded it and carried it to the tomb Brienne felt as though it was a stranger not her husband that they took away.

Stannis stayed at her side through it all. Not so close as to make her uncomfortable, but close enough to let her know that she was not alone. And it seemed to her that he needed the comfort just as much as she did. Perhaps more. When it was time to leave the sept, and leave the body behind in the hands of the septons who would inter it below the floor, he lingered, as though reluctant to look away from what was left of his brother.

There was to be a meal, later, with the king and other Baratheon cousins, but first they rode the litter back to the Red Keep, and it was only when they were in the privacy of the curtained box that Stannis broke their silence.

“I wasn’t fond of my brother,” he said. “But today, I had wondered what he would say to lighten the room and perhaps insult the dead, only to realise that he was the dead.”

Brienne could not think of what to say in response. She had stilled the moment he had begun to speak. Luckily he had not seemed to notice; though he was looking at her, there was a glazed quality to his eyes, and a rehearsed note to his voice that belied his distraction.

“You have been a dutiful wife to him. Better than he deserved, perhaps. I see nothing more paramount than duty, in this world, and I think it is my duty to offer you the same protection and privileges you earned as his wife.”

She leaned back, confused. “I carry his heir. Does that mean nothing?”

He paused, but with a note of resolve, said, “I mean to contest the child’s claim to Storm’s End. Robert… is not easy to persuade, but he will see reason. But should you take my offer”—and here, he took Brienne’s hand, clumsy and cold—“the child can be my heir, after my passing, and you will remain the Lady of Storm’s End.”

Her mind reeled with the revelation and all its implications. Even supposedly carrying Renly’s child she was not safe from the plague of politics that had ruled her life—and this child did not truly exist, besides. It would be dishonourable to deny Lord Stannis his seat, too. A few bannermen in the Stormlands had long expressed their discontent with Renly’s rule—if nothing else he was the youngest Baratheon, and she was a controversial choice of bride for the Lord of Storm’s End. Many lords, including her own father, would have preferred Stannis’ decisive leadership.

And even if the babe existed, who was to say that she would not spend a lifetime chasing away suitors? Men would kill to raise and have the ear of the next Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. And though Tarth was small it was an old, prestigious house, and her next child would inherit it.

It would be sensible to accept Stannis’ offer, Brienne realised. Accept it, and as soon as they were wed, act as though she had lost Renly’s child.

What a scheme it would be! Brienne had seen Selyse Florent’s face when Stannis ignored her at the funeral. The woman had danced with Stannis at the wedding and had just cause to think that he was courting her, and he might have been indeed, but now his sense of duty had compelled him to marry his brother’s widow. There was something admirable in that.

There was also, curling around Brienne’s belly as an asp would, a sense of satisfaction that he, for whatever reason, preferred her to Lady Selyse. No one had preferred her over other women, before, except perhaps Renly—and it was only because he did not prefer women altogether.

Brienne had everything to gain from this arrangement. Surely Stannis Baratheon could not be a worse husband than Renly had been? It felt disloyal to think of her marriage so dispassionately, but she had had nothing but time this last week to reflect and think on all that had happened after she had agreed to Renly’s proposal. And if she were, somehow, through some magic or miracle, given the choice again, she was not certain she would make the same choice. It had been painful. More painful than she would have ever expected.

There was only one good thing that had come of it all.

Jaime.

The afternoon sun slipped between the curtains and cast a beam of light across Stannis’ face. It reminded her of a different afternoon, where the same warm light had slipped between tent flaps, where her hand was enveloped by the tender warmth of Jaime’s hand. He had come to her in the tent, when she had been unwell. He had been so gentle, had been kind without expectation. She had never been treated so softly by any man. Not Renly. Not even her father. 

“My lady?” Stannis asked, shaking Brienne from her thoughts.

“Forgive me,” Brienne said. “I was thinking… your offer is a noble one, Lord Stannis, but I beg you to give me time to consider.”

“Of course,” Stannis said. “It has been a long day, and we are both still mourning.”

“Thank you,” Brienne said. She placed her palms over her flat belly, like she had seen other expectant women do.

Neither offered a time limit to the answer, but Brienne knew it had to be soon. After all, her charade could not last long.

If nothing else, the fact that Stannis let them ride the rest of the way back to the keep in silence was reason enough to entertain the proposal. It was more consideration for her feelings than anyone else had shown her in weeks. Other than… 

Other than Jaime.

* * *

The black cells were darker than he’d expected. He’d known they were dark, of course. It was right there in the name after all. It was just that he’d never really known just how dark a place could get. At night, even with the torches doused, moonlight would light the world, and on nights where the moon hid her face, starlight was still enough to see by. 

But this darkness was terrifying. 

The lantern the guard carried emitted a meagre glow; enough to see a step or two in front but no further. Jaime stayed at the man’s heel for fear that if he dawdled too far behind he would lose sight of his guide and be lost to the shadows forever.

When he received the request to visit his sister, he debated whether he should go. Father was furious. Furious with everyone: Cersei for being so careless, the Baratheons for their stupidity, and Jaime for the true, inarguable fact that it was always Jaime’s fault whenever Cersei crossed a line. Never mind that Jaime had nothing to do with the murder, and that his public threat to Robert only served to clear his own name. No, Jaime was Cersei’s twin, and thus Cersei’s mistakes were his, too.

Jaime had had time enough alone this past week to realise that _he_ was not furious with Cersei. Part of him had always known what she was capable of. It seemed between the two of them, she had been the one who had got all Father’s ruthlessness and ambition. It was as if she had absorbed it all in the womb. She was always the one who’d fought hardest to win in their childhood games. She had been irate when she had been forced to give them up. He had always tried to help her, because he wanted nothing more than to see her happy. But somewhere along the line that had changed, he had changed. And he had seen the signs and had ignored them.

So he couldn’t be furious, not really. Mostly he was just sad. He couldn’t think of a way he could save his sister, and, though the thought sent a cold shiver down his spine, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

But when she called for him to visit her, when that visit was allowed by the King—no doubt caving to the considerable pressure Father had been exerting on the crown’s coffers—he could not refuse.

And right before Jaime descended to the black cells, Father had clutched his arm, strong and sharp and something like a decade ago, when Jaime was small. “She will ask for you to be her champion.” Father’s eyes were cold, steely. “You must not consent to it.”

Jaime had nodded stiffly. Tyrion had cautioned him against the same thing, that very morning. For the two to agree meant it was important. If Jaime fought as Cersei’s champion, he would fight against the Crown—and Father would lose both of them in one fell swoop, no matter the outcome. Robert Baratheon was not likely to let the both of them stay in the Seven Kingdoms, even if the trial of combat absolved Cersei.

So Jaime went down the stairs and into the cells, a single light before him and a coldness in his heart.

Before too long the guard stopped suddenly in front of him, and it was only because Jaime was watching the light so carefully that he did not run the other man over. “We’re here, ser,” the guard said, voice gravelly from misuse. 

Jaime frowned, confused at first. But then he saw, a little ahead and to the left, the muted glint of metal bars. The guard passed the lantern over so he could fumble with the heavy ring of keys at his waist and Jaime lifted it higher in an attempt to cast more light on the cell door.

The heavy lock was almost deafening as the guard unbolted it, then drew the solid door back with a scrape. Every sound settled deep in Jaime’s bowels. “Leave us,” he said to the guard.

The guard lit a torch, mounted it outside the cell, casting lines of shadow over them, and locked Jaime inside the cell before leaving. “When you’re ready to go, ser, call for me.”

And so Jaime was alone with the shadows and his sister. She was lounging in the far corner, nearly untouched by the torchlight, her pose almost like she was sunbathing. Her face was still, unaffected. She was stripped of all jewellery, pins and brooches and anything metal that she could use to fight, but remained clothed in a heavy brocade gown rich enough that it drew attention only to her beauty.

“You took your time,” Cersei said. One of her eyes was dark under the shadow, the other glinting in the light. “Have you tired of your cow so soon? Is her cunt as big as the rest of her?”

Would that Jaime knew. Cersei meant to shame him, and so she did, but not in the way that she thought she was. “Sister,” he began, then stopped. What could be said between them? He had never been good at wielding words the way his siblings could.

“Oh, don’t look so cross. They won’t have my head. Father will never allow it.”

Did she truly believe it, or was she lying again? Jaime could not tell, and perhaps she couldn’t either. Perhaps, at this point, there was no use guessing the difference. “Will you demand a trial by combat, then?”

“If it comes to it,” she said, as though it could end any other way. As though they would not pin her with evidence upon damning evidence. As though she would accept any fair judgement. “You will champion me.”

Jaime heard the unsaid: _we are one and the same, after all, and if I must die then you must, too._ A few moons ago, he would have believed her. “The Mountain will be your champion. Father will not allow me.”

Cersei’s gaze turned sharp. “You craven, sad thing. Hiding behind Father, always hiding behind Father, as though you have no will of your own.” She looked away.

“As you hide behind me so you can do anything you wish, no thought as to the consequences?” he snapped. His heart was pounding harder than ever in his chest; he was not sure he had felt this way when he had stabbed Aerys in the back. That had been just, even if no one had known the truth of the act for years. This though, this felt worse. Or better. He didn’t know. It just felt more. Without knowing what he was doing, more words came tumbling out of his mouth. “You wanted me to kill Robert and I refused, so you found someone else to do your bidding, now you wish me to die for you too? Never have I asked you to do the same for me. I would never put you in the position you put me in. Never.”

“You never needed to. Born with a cock, you were already worth more than I ever was in Father’s eyes, and you could do everything I never was allowed to even _dream_ of. If you were to marry, your wife would never hurt you, she could never wound you as Robert wounded me.”

Jaime recalled the blood Cersei had drawn from him. He still had a healing scab on his hand. It was not the same. Was it? She could not kill him in a fight. He was stronger. She could not. And yet she had attempted to kill Robert, and that the sweetsleep took Renly instead… It was her shortsightedness that was to be blamed, not her intent, nor the depth of her hatred. “You have hurt me,” Jaime said, touching his cheek where Cersei’s palm had connected, time after time after time. “And who is to say you would put poison in my wine too, if I displeased you?”

“Never,” she swore, but her eyes were poison enough.

“No, you only demand I die with you.”

“But you would win,” she hissed. “I have faith enough in that.”

“I might win the trial. But if you think your husband would stop at one fight you’re a fool… Do you think you’ll still be queen after this? He would wage a war. He tore the kingdoms apart for a girl he barely knew, and his men followed. You killed his brother, sweet sister, and he has six kingdoms who would happily ruin us if given the chance.” Sunspear would march, Jaime knew. They had never forgiven Father for the brutal murder of Elia and her children. The Tyrells would, too, for they were all too keen to prove their loyalty after siding with the Targaryens in the rebellion. Nevermind that Loras would surely want his own vengeance once he pulled himself out of his grief.

And the North… Jaime shivered, recalling Ned Stark’s cold, judgemental gaze. The North would march against them too.

Minstrels would sing such songs of the Lion’s downfall, just as they now sang of the Rains of Castamere.

“Jaime,” Cersei pleaded, and there were tears now at the corners of her eyes. She sank to her knees in front of him, clutched his tunic in her fists and begged. “Brother, I’ve made a mistake, I know that now. But please… please don’t abandon me. You’re the only one I have left. It is just us. It’s always been us.” Her lips trembled, and with it her voice wavered. “The rest of the world doesn’t matter, so long as I have you.”

She meant it as a supplication. He heard only the command. Strange that he could hear it now, when he’d never heard it so plainly before. _I have you_ , she said, but he didn’t have her.

Cersei still pawed at him, her knees in the dirt, tear tracks on her cheeks and all traces of her indifferent lounging gone. She straightened her back, bringing her face level with his breeches—and her fingers wound around them, tugging, untying.

Jaime staggered back. “What—”

“Didn’t you miss me? Miss my cunt, my mouth?”

“No,” he said, vehemently enough that her veneer cracked and her disdain peeked through.

She crawled back closer and reached for his breeches again. “You must have forgotten. I’ll remind you of what you can have once we are free.”

Jaime shoved her away and she fell on her backside; he retreated, taking one step after another until his back hit the bars of the cell, hard enough that the lock rattled.

“Everything all right, ser?” the guard called out.

“I’m done here. Get me out of this damned cell.”

Cersei sat up, eyes flashing. “Jaime.”

The guard unlocked the door. Jaime scrambled out. The door slammed shut behind him; the noise of it rattled his bones.

Her face appeared at the bars wedged into the door. Fingers strained through the bars to reach for him. “Jaime. Please. _Jaime_.”

The guard began to walk back up the stairs. The torchlight faded. Jaime could not see her face, just flickers and shadows.

“ _Please. Jaime!_ ”

He turned and followed the light up the stairs and left her in the darkness.

* * *

Brienne wore breeches and a tunic for the trial. She knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that the queen would demand a trial by combat—and should it come to that, Renly would need a champion.

Who better than his own widow? She could practically hear the minstrels and bards of King’s Landing writing their songs already.

The whispers followed her in the throne room, and even as she sat in the chair they had prepared for her, she felt their eyes. But she felt a gaze sharper than most, and she followed it to meet Loras Tyrell’s eyes. He, too, wore black, but his outfit was no flowery, formal thing. It was cut in a practical way, and she knew he had had the same thought as she did, and had dressed accordingly.

A hush fell over the room as Robert and Stannis entered, accompanied by Olenna Tyrell. Robert sat on the Iron Throne, crown perched atop his head, while the other two took their places in the heavy hardwood chairs that had been positioned on either side of the throne. Whether Cersei submitted to the hearing or demanded a trial by combat, it would be a farce; a comedy told and retold for centuries.

They did not wait long before the queen was brought in. The queen, not Cersei Baratheon or Cersei Lannister. She strode proudly, though Brienne had never seen her in a gown as plain, or undyed as this one was. It was a grey so dirty it looked brown, and her hair, usually styled in a series of elaborate braids piled atop her head, was drawn into a single, simple braid. She looked lowborn. The only jewellery she wore was the iron shackles around her wrists—macabre bracelets. Her face was free of all powder and paint, so the shadows under her eyes were plain to see. She looked pale. As frail and sad as a falsely accused innocent could seem, yet still, undoubtedly, a queen as she climbed the steps to the podium.

She surveyed the court, eyes darting around the room as though cataloguing each and every face that was here to look upon her downfall. When her eyes met Brienne’s, her mouth twisted into a sneer.

Robert addressed the court, touting all his titles, and declared himself, Stannis, and Lady Olenna to be the judges. Traditionally, the panel should comprise one person from the accused’s side, one from the victim’s, and one who was supposed to be neutral. Yet two out of three judges were the victim’s brothers; Brienne was certain that if they could have contrived a way to bring Renly back to life, he too would have sat in Olenna’s seat, and so all three brothers would judge the queen.

Brienne watched Cersei’s face, her taut mouth and the undisguised resentment in her eyes. So she did not decide to play the meek wife, then. Perhaps she knew there was no use, with these judges deciding her fate.

Brienne hardly paid attention to the proceedings, watching Cersei instead. She was beautiful. But stripped of the luxuries of a queen, her beauty was a brittle, frail one. Was that what men wanted? A weeping, tender maiden to hold in their arms? Brienne thought of the time Jaime had held her. She was too big to quite fit, though he hadn’t minded then. Or had he? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore.

He was there, watching her. Brienne could feel his eyes, had seen the outline of his figure clad in somber maroon, but she did not, could not, face him, and whatever he held in his gaze for her. Contempt? Regret? Pity?

Whichever it was, she could not bear it. So she kept her eyes on Cersei and the witnesses—no one else.

They called Ser Endric Errol, one of Renly’s bannermen, to the stand to deliver an account of what had occurred earlier on the day of the hunt. It had gone well, they had found signs of a great boar early in the day, though his grace had made note of the fatigue in Lord Renly’s face.

“His grace offered Lord Renly a skin, which little Lord Frey was carrying, and—” he trailed away, glancing at Robert’s face, “—suggested that it might give him some… courage, in the hunt.”

Robert scoffed. Brienne could hazard a guess at the exact words he’d used, but she would rather not. Ser Endric continued his recount. Renly drank most of the wine in one go, and toppled from his horse mere minutes later. At first, they’d thought he had fallen asleep, but when they had picked him up from the ground they discovered he wasn’t breathing. He could not be revived.

Ser Endric stepped down. Cleos Frey was called.

He was but a boy, Brienne realised. A boy whose life had been beaten out of him. He had clearly been tortured, and though he made it to the stand under his own volition he moved slowly, with a significant limp. The entire left side of his face was bruised and swollen, probably a broken cheek bone, and his right hand was encased entirely in bandages, rusted blood seeping from the tips of his fingers. When he spoke he spoke with difficulty, the injury to his cheek making it hard for him to form words. But his slow, slurred words were still damning.

He spoke of his cousin approaching him late at night, the night before the hunt. She had been wild, crazed, and she had given him a vial of a dark liquid and had commanded he put it in Robert’s wine. She had told him it was a love potion, that it would give his grace the vigour to stay longer in her bed. She had told him she despaired, for his grace still mourned his late betrothed though Cersei had been nothing but devoted.

She had told him to empty the entire bottle into a skin.

So he had, for what could he have done? He’d poured it into the second skin, hoping that his grace would be less likely to notice it. When his grace had given the skin to Renly, Cleos worried, but what was the worst that would happen?

Lady Olenna interrupted the story then, asking sharply, “If this is true why did it take a week for you to tell your story to the guards?”

“Cousin Cersei—her grace—she came to me and told me that I had killed a man, that I must have made a mistake and put too much in the skin, and that I would be hanged if I confessed. She promised me—” Cleos’ voice wavered, and never had he seemed younger, “—that I would be protected, that she would find someone to take the fall for me.”

Lady Olenna looked at Lord Varys, tilting her head. “You have good torturers,” she said, and Brienne couldn’t tell whether it was said with awe or censure.

“I do,” the Spider said. “With enough persuasion, we convinced the little lord that there was no one else who would hang but him unless he talked. If I may, your grace?”

Robert grunted and jutted out his chin. “Speak.”

“Lord Frey made a terrible mistake, but he’s nothing but a tool, a weapon wielded by his own cousin. He’s young, too, and of good stock—it would be a terrible thing if we were to inflict the same punishment on him as the one who had full knowledge of what was in the vial.”

“I’ll decide how to punish him,” Robert spat, thunder between his brows.

Lord Varys bowed obsequiously low and retreated, silk robes rustling against the stone. Lord Stannis, however, leaned towards the throne and whispered something to Robert. Robert grunted something unintelligible, and then, “the wall?”

Stannis nodded curtly.

For the first time, there was something other than defeat in the young boy’s battered face, and he quaked a little less when the kingsguard took him away.

Brienne felt a surge of gratitude and respect. Stannis was truly decent, to extend mercy to one that had a hand in killing his brother. She felt certain he would honour her, should she accept his proposal.

“The Crown calls Jaime Lannister to testify,” Robert boomed, and Brienne felt her heart thud like a hammer on an anvil.

The crowd parted and he emerged. He looked tired, his posture slumped just so that Brienne wondered if the stiff doublet he wore was the only thing keeping him upright. He walked to the podium next to Cersei’s. The sister begged her brother to look, but Jaime’s eyes remained fixed on the dais where the judges sat.

They made him swear an oath. His mouth twisted as he said it, just a little. _All oaths are born broken,_ Jaime had said to Brienne. Would he lie before the gods, today?

It was Lady Olenna who questioned Jaime, and she wasted no time. “Ser Jaime, is it true that you threatened to kill his grace, the morning of the hunt?”

“Only if his grace considered my words a threat.”

Lady Olenna’s brow twitched. “Do you remember what you said?”

“I told his grace that I regretted not killing the Mad King sooner. That he interprets that as a threat means he puts himself in the same category as Aerys Targaryen.”

The vein on Robert’s temple was visible even from where Brienne stood. Lady Olenna paid him no heed, though, and asked, “Why mention Aerys?”

“He is on the tip of every tongue when I walk into a room. I have taken to mentioning him first since no one is brave enough to mention him in my presence.”

Perhaps it would have worked on someone else, but Olenna Tyrell did not suffer fools. She levelled a stare that would have frozen Dorne and he relented; an expression flashed across his face and for a moment he looked young, scared. It was quickly replaced by the look of bored disdain he’d worn since the moment he took the stand. Brienne tried to read the faces of the people around her but she couldn’t tell if anyone else had noticed the moment his mask had dropped, or if they had, they did not care.

“The night before the hunt, my sister told me that his grace had bruised her in their bedchamber, and she begged me to intercede.” Jaime drew a breath. “The Mad King had a fondness for his wife’s cries of pain and seeing my sister’s bruise, it… I told her I would speak with his grace, and so I did.” His mouth twisted wryly. “His grace didn’t appreciate my counsel. He banished me from the day’s hunt.”

“Did you know that your sister planned to kill his grace?” Olenna continued.

The court held its breath as one.

“No,” Jaime said, evenly.

Olenna pressed on. “You said she begged you to intercede.”

“And I did, by talking to his grace. I had no idea what Cersei had planned.”

“Why would she ask for your cousin’s help and not yours? You are uncommonly close, by all accounts.” There was something buried within her words that Brienne did not like; a hint that she knew there was more to their relationship than the usual bond of siblings.

“Because Robert denied my brother the hunt,” Cersei said, clear as a bell. “Jaime agreed to loose a stray arrow his way, but when Robert stopped him from joining the hunt, I had to find… other means.”

The crowd was stunned; murmurs and gasps and exclamations sounded throughout the hall, but Stannis Baratheon proved himself to be equal to his brother in one regard and raised his voice above it all to say, “But Cleos Frey said you approached him the night before. How would you know that Ser Jaime would be barred from the hunt?”

Cersei’s face twisted, her composure breaking for a moment.“The boy—” Cersei began, then faltered. “He must have lied!” She turned around, searching the crowd—and then pointed her finger at Brienne. “You made him lie about that, you did, for what would a craven little mongrel like him would not say when you’ve pulled all his fingernails? You did that so Jaime would evade blame.”

It was a ridiculous suggestion. Brienne had never even exchanged a word with the young Frey. Feet away, now gripping the podium with white-knuckled hands, the queen’s twin looked on, mouth agape. 

Cersei smiled a self-satisfied smirk as she continued, to the judges, “This cow has been drooling over my brother since we came to King’s Landing, and would you not say that Renly’s death has allowed her to pursue… grander options?”

“Lady Brienne has no reason to kill me, and indeed the poison was intended for me,” Robert said, frowning. He leaned forward. “You have gone mad. I think we have heard enough.” He turned to look at his fellow judges. “I say the bitch is guilty. She tried to kill me but got Renly instead.”

“Guilty,” Lady Olenna agreed.

“No!” Cersei shouted, before Stannis could speak. “You may think me guilty but the gods haven’t spoken. I demand a trial by combat.”

The court burst into uproar, everyone getting to their feet at once. But something queer was happening to Brienne; it was as though she was witnessing it all from the depths of the roiling, deadly ocean during a storm. Everything was foggy and hard to see and hear. All except Jaime, who still stood in place in the witness stand, though he now listed dangerously to the side, seemingly struggling to hold himself straight and tall any longer.

Olenna scoffed. “It is too late for that, my girl.”

“Let her have her fight,” Robert cried, spit flying from his mouth. “Well, who’s your champion then?”

Cersei turned to her brother, a quiet plea on her mouth, but he had found his strength. He stepped down from the stand and pushed through the crowd, away from the judges, away from his sister, and out the hall.

The court watched him leave with thinly veiled delight. The spectacle of the trial had been more rewarding than their wildest expectations, and surely would be the subject of gossip for years to come.

But Brienne had seen the look on Jaime’s face, the look of pain, of betrayal, and something more frightening. A resignation. A resolve. 

She was surprised to realise she wanted to follow him. To reach out and offer him support and comfort the way that he had done for her, when she had so desperately needed it. To shield him from his sister and protect him from her fate. She was still confused, upset and discomfited by what he had confessed to her, but one thing stuck in her mind: one night, Cersei had asked the unthinkable of him, and he had left.

Brienne knew what Cersei had asked, then. It was all too easy to guess.

She had demanded Jaime kill another king, and instead he had left. 

Still, after that, Cersei tried to pull Jaime into the mire in which she was sinking, and when that hadn’t worked, begged him to be her champion. Jaime had said that he had loved Cersei his entire life, but Brienne could see no love in return from the woman standing before them all in shackles. Only desperation and calculation.

Brienne felt a tug on her sleeve. She turned around, and upon finding no one next to her, looked down. Tyrion Lannister looked up at her with wide, mismatched eyes. “Lady Brienne.” He was offering her a way out.

The court was still in uproar, though it had not officially been dismissed. She should stay. She _should_ stay. She should…

She was sick of doing what she should, being the obedient daughter, the understanding wife. Where had it got her? What had _should_ done for her?

She stood and let Tyrion Lannister escort her from the room and she did not look back. Not even when Robert called her name.

There was no need to be _good_ any longer. She would do what was right instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Epilogue.


	7. Epilogue - Matched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homeward bound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E rating ahead.

Jaime wanted nothing else but to rest, undisturbed, but Tyrion insisted on a late supper, and there were few things he could deny his little brother. They were on the sweet course when a knock sounded on the door and Tyrion said, “Ah. About time.”

Jaime could not think who Tyrion could possibly be expecting at this hour, and so eagerly at that, for he hopped off the chaise lounge and went to open the door with surprising energy. Jaime froze a little when Brienne walked in. 

She was in the same outfit she had been wearing earlier at court, except a heavy cloak over her shoulders and a sword belt strapped to her hip—it suited her far better than any dress. She looked firmly at Jaime’s chin and said, “Ser Jaime—Jaime. I must ask you for a favour.”

Distantly, in the back of his mind, Jaime knew Tyrion was watching. Yet he could not see anything but her, hear anything but her voice. He said, “Anything.” He knew that anything she would ask of him could never dishonour him. So he said, again, “Anything you ask,” and trusted her with himself.

She floundered, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth before at last, she simply said, “I am to go home. Will you escort me on the way?”

“And the babe?” Jaime asked, uncomprehending. Close as Storm’s End might be to King’s Landing, it was at least a sennight’s journey, more if they took a carriage, and a toll to a pregnant lady.

She shook her head. He took in her appearance again, the worn riding boots, the dark cloak, the sword, and he understood. She needed to leave right now. Right now, or else she would face Robert’s wrath for killing the last part of Renly that had survived, even though it was not likely to be her own fault. She might be strong enough to take care of herself, but the road still was a perilous place for a lone woman. And she would bring her maid too, most likely, an even more appealing target for the most ruthless vagrants. Bandits, rapers, robbers, they would come in numbers and mark her and her maid as easy targets. She needed a man, not to fight them, but to dissuade them.

He glanced at Tyrion to see him looking up at the two of them, a bright, excited look on his face. He looked the child he truly was, the hero of the stories he loved so much come to life in front of him. The fair maiden asking a favour of her brave knight. That the maiden was not so fair, and the knight not so brave did not seem to matter. She wanted his help.

Instead of anyone else in the castle, anyone from the Stormlands, instead of writing to her father and waiting for him to come, she had chosen Jaime.

And he had promised her anything.

He swallowed. “A quarter hour,” he said. “Wait for a quarter hour, my lady, so I can gather my things, and then we will leave.”

Tyrion did not seem surprised, only proud. Had he known of the miscarriage? Or—

Jaime paused and watched as his brother poured a cup of wine for Brienne, a silent understanding between them. Jaime remembered the way Tyrion made him swear high and low to not visit Cersei again no matter how much she begged; he remembered seeing the look on Brienne’s face in the court when his sister tried to implicate him in her crime.

Had the boy planned this? He and Brienne both? They seemed an unlikely pair of schemers: honest, loyal Brienne and his clever, eleven-year-old brother. How had they contrived a miscarriage? Or did she still carry the babe? Jaime had no answers, only more and more questions, all of them too dangerous to ask within these walls. But it was clear that rather than the shining knight, he was the maiden, who was soon to be rescued from the evil witch.

“You’re staring awfully hard, brother,” Tyrion said, an edge of mirth tweaking his lips.

Jaime opened his mouth. Closed it. No, they had no time to bicker. He had to pack. He stood and turned to go to his rooms, but thought better of it and turned. He leaned over his little brother, cradled his curly-haired head in his hand and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Thank you, brother.”

“I’ll visit,” Tyrion said, in that light tone he used when he was close to tears.

Jaime frowned. “I’ll only be away for a little while, and then I’ll go back to the Rock.”

Tyrion sipped his wine and smiled. “Write to me when you change your mind, then.”

Brienne watched the exchange with blinking, wide eyes. Her hand rested on the pommel of her sword, natural as any knight. He smiled at her.

She smiled back.

“A quarter hour,” he repeated, then turned to fetch his belongings.

* * *

By the time they broke through the Kingswood and arrived at a village just shy of Bronzegate, the sun had well and truly set and the sky had darkened but for the sliver of the moon and some twinkling stars. Brienne was tired, her legs hurting from days of riding, her back sore night after night sleeping on a thin bedroll on the ground, the fire in front of her and Lili curled up behind her for warmth. Jaime had placed his bedroll on the other side of the fire, seemingly determined to give her space.

He was nothing but a gallant knight throughout their travels. Brienne almost missed his brashness, his rude, insulting comments. Instead, he was quiet most of the time, and she did not know what to do with it. She had always been the quiet one, and she was running out of ways to fill their days and minds, else they end up discussing something she thought they would both rather not.

“Lili, am I right in remembering that you hail from Bronzegate?” Brienne had asked her maid earlier in the afternoon, in a desperate effort to pass the time. She knew it well enough, but hoped that Jaime would take to this topic better than all the others he’d let wither and die as they’d trekked through the woods.

Lili smiled. “I did not think you remembered me telling you that, milady.”

“She can be deceptively attentive, can’t she?” Jaime added, surprising the women some. Of all the topics to tempt him… But it was the first time he’d spoken that day to say anything other than what was necessary to their journeying, so she would not question it.

Something about his tone was teasing and his eyes were warm like a summer morning, harkening back to _that_ morning and the afternoon that followed. He held her gaze for a moment, then looked away, coughing; she felt her own face burning, and it was not the stifling weather.

Lucky that Lili was there to distract them both from the stilted silence. “Most of my family live in Storm’s End these days. But I still have a cousin in these parts. She runs the village inn with her new husband.”

“An actual bed would be a pleasant change,” Brienne said. A roof above their heads while they slept so they did not have to take turns keeping watch, then wake covered in dew. And oh, to wash and use the chamberpot without having to hide in a bush. To _have_ a chamberpot. The inn sounded like a dream. “Is it a good inn?”

“It’s quite new, I think, but nothing like a castle,” Lili said.

“Nothing like a bedroll on the ground, either. Let us go. I may as well spend the coin I won in that blasted tourney,” said Jaime, with a certain decisiveness to his tone.

So it was decided they would stay the night at the inn, and when they finally rode through the gates of the village and through the market square, Brienne had quite perfected the fantasy of an uninterrupted night of blissful, dreamless sleep, cuddled up warm beneath layers of heavy blankets with a belly full of hearty stew and warm, fresh bread. Perhaps even a flagon of ale, if Lili’s cousin had opened a fresh keg.

But she should have known better than to get ahead of herself.

On approach it was clear the inn was crowded. Light gleamed from every window and the main door was flung open, allowing the clamour of a well-populated room loud conversation, music, general rabble rousing to spill into the night. They dismounted and handed their three horses off to a harried-looking stable boy, who nearly dropped the reins so he could catch the silver stag that Jaime tossed at him.

They walked in, weary and ready for a meal. A barmaid glanced at them, her eyes trailing to the heavy purse on Jaime’s belt and the fresh blade at Brienne’s waist. She spent some time looking at Lili too, with the same sort of calculating gaze, though Lili looked nothing like a highborn.

The barmaid beckoned them, stole a few unoccupied stools, and sat them around a few upright barrels. “Not a proper table, yeah, but I trust this’ll do?”

“Thank you,” Brienne said. She was not planning on a long evening. A meal, a wash, and a sleep on a proper bed. That was all she wanted. “What are you serving, tonight?”

The barmaid shrugged. She said, bored, “Same as always. Lamb and potato stew, bread.”

“Three, then, and three ales too,” Brienne said, and with a glance at Lili, she asked, “Anything else, Lili?”

Lili said, “Oh, I’ll have supper with cuz.” She smiled sweetly at the barmaid, and asked, “Do you know where I might find Jeyne?”

“There’s four Jeynes here,” the barmaid said. “Three, if I don’t count, since you’ve found me already.”

Jaime snorted, but neither the barmaid nor Lili paid him any mind. Brienne did not, either, too enraptured by this… secret communication between Lili and Jeyne the barmaid, fully articulated in glances.

At last, Lili said, “My cousin’s the innkeep’s wife.”

“Markus’ wife? Aye, I can take you to her. You sure your lord and lady will be all right without you?”

Lili spared them not a single glance. Brienne was beginning to grow offended. “They’ll be just fine.” Then, looking at Jaime, “If milord will give me some coins, I’ll get rooms for us.”

They left. Not long after, Jeyne the barmaid returned with their ales and stew, and Brienne spared no time to begin eating. The music changed around them, and it was only after the fourth mouthful that she could make out the words.

_A stag in a field of roses, bleeding as the bear watched. A lion, grinning from a distance, to dine on the stag. The sun may rise, the moon may wane, but the wars stayed the same. And we, mere ants under their feet, could merely dance along._

It was not a subtle song, by any stretch, but then came a part that drained all the warmth out of Brienne’s body, with the lute melody going faster and faster: _the she-bear, the lion, a love match or a jest? None knows but the stranger, for deaths they only bring._

Brienne turned to watch Jaime’s face. He was red with anger, his brows knotted and his knuckles white around his spoon. Before she could think, she reached out to settle a hand over his, gentling his fingers to get him to release the spoon.

He looked up at her touch, a queer expression on his face.

She shook her head.

His shoulders sagged, and he released the spoon. But he pulled his hand out from under hers and then reached for his belt, drawing a gold dragon. He tossed it at the bard. “Another one, if you sing _Seasons of My Love_ ,” he called out, over the noise.

The bard was quick to act. He cut the song short, and soon he sang a song Brienne liked no better: _I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair…_

Jaime had left his love behind, his love with the sunlight in her hair. Did he miss his sister, she wondered. Cersei had been so cruel to him, but did Brienne not love Renly despite his callous treatment of her? Mere days ago she had been ready to fight as Renly’s champion. It would not be unthinkable if Jaime regretted coming with her. After all, Tyrion had said as much: if Jaime had stayed, he would fight for Cersei. Brienne had robbed him of that chance.

She busied herself in her meal, taking a long draw from the mug of ale first before tucking into the stew and the bread once more. Now that she was less hungry, she tried to appreciate the flavours more. It was a rustic meal, far simpler than anything she had had in months and all the more delicious for it. The bread was chunky, made with the kind of hand-milled grain that was desperately unpopular in the capital, where white bread was favoured. Brienne preferred this though; it soaked up the gravy of the stew far better.

Enraptured as she was by her meal, it was some time before she realised that Jaime was not eating as enthusiastically as she was. He was watching her, a certain kind of intensity in his eyes.

She paused. “What?” she asked, a little harshly.

“You look well,” he said, smiling. “Better than the past sennight.”

She had only stopped bleeding that morning, which improved her condition significantly—but she would not tell him that. “I am glad to be out of the city,” she said instead, honestly enough. “The air here is easier to breathe. I had forgotten how much that place smelled.”

The memory of it still lingered, would not leave her for some time, she was sure, and even the thought of the stench twisted her nose so much, mixing with the rotting smell of Renly’s body on the seventh day of his vigil, that she reached for the mug of ale to wash it away.

Would that it were something stronger. Like wine.

“I imagine the air in Tarth will be better.”

She smiled. “So much. You will like it there, I think.” She realised how that must have sounded, so she added, “It’s not a terrible place to restock before continuing on your journey.”

“I don’t know if I am ready for another journey so soon,” he said, and was that a hint of a smile on his lips? He continued, “Truth be told, I know very little of the journey I am on, right now. Will you tell me?”

He extended his hand across, waiting. She felt the fight going out in her, the resistance crumbling away as she set her hand in his warm palm. “Your brother talked with me, after the trial. He asked me to—”

“Rescue me?”

Brienne chuckled. “Something of the sort. He worried that you still might be persuaded to fight for your sister, if you had stayed in the Red Keep.”

That much, Jaime must have guessed already, for he asked no more questions about his brother. Instead, he asked, “How did you arrange the miscarriage?”

“There was never a babe. The king saw what he wanted to see. Lili and I… let him. He was close to raising his hand, for he had thought that you and I…” she trailed away, could feel how hot her cheeks were with her blush. “When he ‘discovered’ that I was carrying Renly’s child, his temper cooled, and I knew I could not stay long before they knew the truth.”

There was a pause as Jaime studied her. She wanted to squirm under his attention, but she held herself still. There should be no shame to her ruse. She had done only what she needed to, to survive at court.

“I heard,” Jaime said, after a while, “that Stannis offered you his hand.”

She shrugged. “He has a sense of responsibility for me, as his brother’s widow.”

“He is a dutiful man, and loyal. He would be a decent husband.” Jaime said again, pressing. Did he wish to be rid of her so much that he now pushed her to marry Stannis? Yet his hand held hers tight, despite the words that pushed her away. Jaime did not seem to see the incredulity in her face, however, and continued on, “There would be no dishonour, if you married him.”

For some reason his words left her feeling deeply unsatisfied. It was something to do with the way he still avoided her gaze. The bard finished the song, leaving the air between them still and quiet. She pulled her hand away. “I am sick of honour. Where has it got me?”

Lili returned, then, with a key in her hand. “They’ve got only one room, so you’ll have to share it.”

The weight of it thudded in Brienne’s belly. Sharing a room with Jaime? No. She could not. It would be improper. Worse, it would torture her so that she would not get a proper sleep, which would mean falling off her horse the next day. They could barely carry out a conversation over a meal, and now Lili wanted them to share a room?

“Lili can stay with you. I’ll find somewhere else to sleep,” Jaime said, in an attempt to save them both the embarrassment.

“No,” Lili said, with unreserved gall. “I’ll be a bad servant if I let milord sleep in the cold, and even worse if milady does. And I’ll go truly mad, you know I will, if I have to go on with you two as you are. So I’ll stay with Jeyne for the night, and milady and milord will get along.”

Brienne felt her face growing warm, and she was not sure if it was anger, embarrassment, or the dancing fire in the pit of her stomach. “I ought to flog you,” she said, though she knew well enough she could never do so.

Lili looked at her very evenly, not a trace of fear in her eyes. “You’re much too kind for that, and you know I’m right.” She gave the key to Ser Jaime, who took it without a word. Then, like the turncloak that she was, Lili said, “Stable’s full, too. Unless milord wants to get kicked by a horse or two, better stay with milady.”

She had spent months sleeping beside Renly. She could survive one night with Jaime. Would it really be so different? Still, she could not quite meet his eyes. “It is just one night,” Brienne finally said, striving for nonchalance. 

Jaime was silent for a long moment. “If the lady doesn’t object then I won’t either.”

Lili leaned over and patted Ser Jaime once, twice on the knee. A companionable, yet impertinent gesture, and the bewilderment was so apparent on his face that Brienne had to hide a smile. Before Jaime could gather his wits about him to respond, Lili had disappeared back into the crowd to find her Jeyne. 

It seemed Lili had taken their easy conversation with her when she’d gone, leaving behind this awkward anticipation between them. Brienne turned her gaze to her empty plate, picking at the crumbs of bread that were all that remained of her meal.

“Truly you don’t mind?” Jaime said, far too softly. By all rights his voice should have been drowned out by the noise of the other patrons, if it weren’t for the fact that she was acutely, agonisingly attuned to his every breath.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to be anyone else, someone with more grace, better able to keep their composure when confronted with things such as this. She had never learned the art of conversation, not the way Cersei had, or even Lili, in her own way.

All she could do was fall back upon honesty. She glanced up at him finally, saw him looking at her with the same kindness in his eyes that had surprised her so. “No,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

They finished their dinner in silence, though it was far more companionable now. Brienne could not say with any certainty what had changed, but something had. The tavern crowd began to get a little more rowdy, as the ale continued to flow freely and the singer began to sing bawdier fare. Brienne didn’t mind so much, but she _was_ tired, and when she stifled her third jaw-cracking yawn in minutes, Jaime gently nudged her foot with his.

“Time to retire, I think,” he said.

She couldn’t think of any reason to object.

They ascended the stairs together, leaving the ruckus of the crowd behind as they reached the second floor. Their room was at the end of the hall; Jaime’s money had rented them the nicest of the rooms the tavern had to offer, perhaps only vacant as none but a Lannister could afford it on a busy night such as this. When the door opened before them, it was spacious enough, with a tub and a chamberpot in one corner, and a screen for privacy. Their packs were placed by the window, next to the bed.

It was a big bed, by all accounts, with enough room for both Jaime and Brienne, but still it was just one bed.

It should be fine. She'd shared a bed with Renly, many nights. With that thought pressed against her chest like a talisman, she walked into the room and sat on the bed, unlacing her boots just so she could occupy her hands and hide her face from Jaime. Next to her, the bed dipped as Jaime sat down, and she felt a dull thud of something heavy hitting the mattress. She looked around and saw his sword, scabbard and all.

“We can place it between us, if it makes you feel safer,” Jaime offered.

Brienne wasn’t certain how she could explain properly to Jaime that she trusted him enough that the sword was unneeded, yet it still gave her a measure of security that she wanted the sword to stay. A line, drawn in the sand. Still, things were stilted enough between them that the sword would perhaps help little.

“I feel you are less likely to cut me in my sleep than the sword, ser,” she said, and was rewarded with a smile.

“As you like,” he said, and set the sword down on the floor at the end of the bed instead. He gestured at the bed. “Which side do you favour?”

“The one closer to the window,” she answered without a thought. She had missed the stormy air so that she’d much rather have the window than the door.

“As you like,” he said once more, then reached for his pack and began rooting around for a fresh undershirt to wear.

Brienne did the same, then moved behind the partition to wash and change. There was a pleasant breeze blowing through the room. They would have to bolt the window closed, eventually, for the room was not so high that a climbing thief might not reach it, but Brienne drew it out, leaving it open as she loosened her sleeves, untied her hair, washed her face and neck at the washbasin. When it was time, she took a long inhale, soothing her nerves and cooling her face.

Then, she stepped out from behind the screen, where Jaime was in his undershirt and breeches, sitting up on the bed, reading a small book. The cover looked familiar.

“My book!” She hadn’t even noticed it was missing. The chaos of that afternoon, and all the days after had pushed it from her mind.

He looked up at her and grinned. “It’s not quite the same, reading it myself.”

“You stole it,” she accused.

“I borrowed it. And then, I forgot about it, until I had to pack up my belongings.” He flicked through the pages until he found the spot she had been reading from, and began to slowly read aloud, “ _Scholars have often speculated that dragon fire was a necessary part of forging Valyrian steel. Indeed the fact that modern smiths have not been able to recreate the qualities of this unique metal using known strategies seems to suggest there is one or more_ unknown _elements in the process_ …” he trailed off with a laugh. “This seemed much more romantic when you were reading it.”

The window was still open—the breeze still wound around them—yet Brienne found it hard to breathe. “Jaime,” she began. She was unsure of how to express it, this odd lump that was stuck in her throat. “May I explain myself?”

“Explain yourself?” he asked, closing the book and setting it aside.

“I judged you and pushed you away, as though I was punishing you for your honesty. I hadn’t—I thought you still wanted—I’m not beautiful, Jaime.”

He understood, then; she could see it in the tight line of his mouth. “You thought I was still with my sister.”

“I did not know what she asked of you, what you meant when you said you left her. I only could guess after the trial.”

Jaime looked down at the book, tracing the stamped pattern on its leather cover. “She said, _you already slew one king. What is another?_ ”

“Did she know?”

He looked at her with astonishment. “Brienne, you’re the first one to ask me. The _only_ one who ever asked me. No one else knows.” He chuckled without mirth. “I think Tyrion guessed something close to the truth, but even he never asked, as much as he likes to know things.”

The note of disappointment was impossible to miss, the way his sardonic smile turned a little bitter instead. It hurt her heart. She knew of his reputation, and she had once believed it, but she had always assumed some knew, if not all. Those closest to him, at least. He had been mistrusted and disbelieved by so many. And then he had put his faith in her and she had betrayed it. She sat down next to him on the bed.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I hope it isn’t too late to say that?”

He shook his head. “There is nothing to apologi—”

“ _Don’t._ ” If he stopped her, she would never get it out. “I am sorry. I am sorry that even after you showed me more kindness than anyone in that damned keep, I still doubted you. I ran away with my assumptions, and in that regard I am no different than everyone who judged you. I should have asked. I should have trusted you more.”

He set the book aside and reached out and took her hand. “Brienne,” he said softly.

“I am sorry, too,” she continued, “that I took you away from your sister. Took away your choice to stay by her side.” She could not stop it now, the apologies and the mistakes, the lost time and the regrets. She knew no other way to show her trust than to tell him all of her thoughts.

He squeezed her hand. “I chose that myself. You merely showed me a way, one I did not know was open.”

“You will go to Casterly Rock?” she asked. “That will make your father happy, I think.”

“I don’t think Father has ever been happy these past twelve years, and I doubt he would let that change.” He rubbed his thumb gently across the back of her hand. 

Brienne had never been more terrified. But still she tugged at his hand and sidled closer, until he was close enough she could clumsily kiss him. The momentum brought his body crashing into hers, her lips against his teeth, her chin against the scruffy beginning of his beard, yet he didn’t seem to mind as he hummed into her mouth and somehow adjusted their positions to a more comfortable one.

There was no need for words, in the moments that followed. Brienne had nearly forgotten the feel of him in her arms, the taste of his mouth. She had forgotten the warmth that filled her so fully she could cry. 

She slipped her free hand around to cup the back of his head, buried her fingers in the soft curls there, drawing him closer again. He made a noise when her fingernails scratched across his scalp which only stoked the building fire in her belly, so she did it again. He grunted, then, and almost forcefully rolled them around so she was splayed on top of him.

Her legs slipped either side of his body, framing his hips, her weight pressing him down into the mattress. She tried to lift off him, certain she was crushing him, but he pulled her closer still, and from a certain hardness against her leg, he seemed to _like_ the weight.

It was so different to what it had been like with Renly. Renly had only touched her as much as necessary, but Jaime could not keep his hands from her, nor could he keep them still. They roamed her body, stroking and pressing and burning her, burning her from within. It was almost too much, then he slipped his hand inside her tunic and she gasped at the feel of his hand on her stomach.

His touch was familiar, yet foreign. Last time, in the solar, there was no urgency, and she had been sore and tender. He had not wanted to hurt her. Now, there was only heat and want, when nothing was enough despite the overwhelming feeling of his hands on her, when she wanted more and for once couldn't muster any shame for such desires.

Both hands were beneath her tunic now, roaming higher, further, thumbs strumming at her ribs, drawing impossible, involuntary sounds from her, and when he cupped her breast she gasped, tearing her lips from his. She could feel him smile against her cheek before he pressed his lips to her neck.

She didn't know what to do, but she followed her impulses and slipped one hand between them, down past the flat planes of his torso and then under his shirt, and up again, exploring, roaming. She liked the feel of his muscles, how the muscles of his abdomen twitched under her touch and how his skin moved gently as she explored him with her fingers. He seemed to approve, from the fervent litany murmured into her shoulder. 

“Can we—?” he gasped, and tugged at her undershirt. Tugged it higher.

She sat up straight and pulled it over her head, then tossed it in a perfect arc so that it landed atop the folding screen. The evening breeze washed over her, blooming gooseflesh across her skin and pebbling her nipples, but she could hardly care when all she wanted was his skin against hers.

She looked down on him, his glazed eyes and half-open mouth. He was propped on his elbows, watching her. “Gods,” he said, his voice hoarse as he reached a finger out to stroke the flushed skin at her sternum, “it _does_ go all the way down.”

“What?”

“The freckles. The blush.”

“My freckles?” she frowned, looking down at her mottled chest, but before she could say any more he pushed himself up so he could lick a cluster of spots on her clavicle, before picking at the laces of his own undershirt.

But his fingers didn’t seem to be obeying him, perhaps it was his excitement, or maybe it was just a particularly challenging knot to unravel, or perhaps because he was hardly looking at the laces, his eyes drinking in the sight of her instead. But it was his turn to flush when he only tightened them further. A laugh bubbled up in her; this was absurd! Yet she found his increasing frustration amusing, and it only made her want to kiss him more.

He gave up, at last, looking at her beseechingly.

She looked back, pretending to not understand—it was all too easy to needle him. She hadn’t thought it was possible at all, considering he had worn the guise of a proud, rude lord who could never be teased. Even that afternoon, when she had caught a glimpse of his gentleness, he had been self-assured enough.

And here he was now, the great Jaime Lannister, undone by a knot, a lump in his breeches and a plea on his face.

“Don’t be cruel,” he said.

“It helps if you look at your hands.” She slipped her own hands a little higher beneath the fabric, fingers brushing his sides, then reached up to untangle the mess he’d made. Soon enough his shirt was tossed beside hers, revealing such an expanse of glowing skin before her she didn’t know what to touch first.

He cocked a grin. “It’s a boring sight. I’d much rather—” he trailed off, lifting a finger, tracing a scar across her middle. “Where did you get this one?”

She shied away from his touch. It was not a pretty story. Hers was not a pretty form. Still, he asked it without mockery, and so she answered him honestly enough. “A training accident.”

He blinked. “Your master-at-arms was a harsh one.”

“I was arrogant. I told him I was ready for a _real_ blade.” It was a shallow cut, but enough to leave a thin scar. Ser Goodwin had been kind enough to leave it where her clothes would conceal it, and later Septa Roelle had told Brienne that her husband would likely care little, if they’d married her despite her face.

Brienne did not tell him _that_ part of the story. Somehow, she knew it would only make Jaime angry at a dead woman. A woman who had poisoned Brienne’s ear against herself.

And besides, Septa Roelle had been wrong. Husband or not, Jaime cared. He asked, and he did not laugh or mock. The scar and its story did not deter his enthusiasm either—under her, she felt him just as hard, perhaps even a little more.

“We should find time to finish our bout, one of these days,” he said, and her mouth went dry at the tone he used, gravelly and almost indecent. His hands had moved lower, thumbs slipping beneath the fabric of her breeches, brushing the sensitive skin of her lower belly, the soft line of hair that trailed downwards. His eyes searched her face, as though seeking confirmation or denial, but she merely exhaled in a small whimper and clutched at his shoulders. 

He didn’t struggle with _those_ laces at all.

After that it was like a queer dream, hard to remember from one moment to the next but so all-consuming that she didn’t care. The way his hands moved lower and lower until her breeches were pushed off her hips altogether. His fingers were on her, touching in that way that she had only done once, yet he was not clumsy as she had been. He watched her closely, and every now and then he would adjust his movements to the tune of her sighs and moans.

Once, he stopped. “Good?” he asked, and Brienne nearly hated him for it.

It was minutes. Forever. She knew not the passage of time, but eventually Jaime played her as he would an instrument, and by the end of their song she gritted her teeth and muffled her pleasure into her fist. He pulled back, then, giving her room to breathe, and as she did so he laced his fingers with hers and told her, “Scream, if you must.”

“The window is open. They’ll hear,” she said, between panted breaths.

He crawled backwards and ducked down to speak his next into the skin of her thigh. “Let them. What do they know of us?” 

She threw her face aside, looking out the window, and had half a mind to tell Jaime to close it, or even get up to close it herself. But Jaime was right—what indeed did the villagers know of them, save that they were travellers in an inn? When they reached Tarth—

But she did not want to think of him leaving, so she tugged on the hand she still held and pulled him astride her.

“I can close it?” he offered, looking down on her. His hands roamed her skin, caressed her breasts, leaving a trail of heat wherever they touched. She shook her head.

“I’ve missed the breeze,” she said, and as though it heard her a cool gust of air wafted through the room. Jaime’s touch was hotter than any furnace that she feared she would catch fire without the wind.

He smiled and slid back, slotting himself between her legs as he leaned down to claim her lips again, as though they weren’t his already, as though she would not surrender all she was to him. His tongue slid between her lips, a tease. He tasted like ale. She felt almost drunk, yet so aware of him, the weight of him, the pressure between her legs.

She was not aware that she could be… this. Desirable. Desiring. Her hands moved as though they belonged to someone bolder, pushing down the waist of his breeches, removing the last barrier between them both. He eagerly complied, and at last, at last he was fully revealed to her.

His cock looked nothing like Renly’s. Not soft and sad but stiff and red and curling a little upwards towards his belly. She wanted to feel it before it was in her. Perhaps he saw the twitch of her fingers. He took her hand and guided her to wrap it around the base, showed her how to touch him. The heft of it in her hand, the fullness, sent a bolt of desire to her core. There was something primal in it, feeling him beneath her fingertips. _He is made to fit me_.

They did not douse the lights, nor did he tell her to lie on her belly. The lamp burned on the bedside table, casting a low light over the bed, and they faced each other as he resumed his place between her legs, settled her back against the pillows. She was not silent, by any measure, couldn’t have remained quiet on pain of death. Yet none of her sounds seemed to deter Jaime, and when he pushed inside her, there was little pain.

Still, she gasped.

 _This. This is what it is supposed to feel like_.

It was everything that her night with Renly hadn’t been. Jaime was gentle, moving leisurely yet without reluctance. He’d needed no oil to slick her, the wetness that had pooled at her core was more than enough to ease him inside. And she could see his face, oh his face! Looks of wonderment and adoration and absurdity and smiling, smiling, her own cheeks ached with her myriad expressions too. She had never smiled so much. She liked to see all he was doing, to see his silent questions and hear his verbal ones. He responded to every sound she made, chuckling at even the ones that she did not know she could make. Especially those, even.

They rocked together, the bed creaking under them as an accompaniment to their dance. The pace picked up as they sought more and more friction, Jaime’s fingertips on the place they connected, the feeling drove her almost to madness. She clutched him more tightly to her, trying to pull him closer, enveloping him within her until she broke. Because surely that was what it was. Her body arched into his, she clenched and cried out so loud they would surely hear her in the Red Keep.

He followed her shortly after. His thrusts became shallower, more erratic, his weight bearing down on her. Sated as she was, however, it was not a burden. He muttered nonsense into the crook of her neck, and then he gasped as something burst inside her, warm and liquid, and his whole frame relaxed, loose-limbed, atop her. A puppet with his strings cut.

She stroked his hair, gently, as he still twitched from the release. Eventually, he pushed himself up and kissed her, this time slow and careful rather than hungry.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Brienne laughed. What a question! “A little sticky,” she said, honestly enough.

Jaime smiled and gave her one more quick kiss before clambering off of her and heading to the washbasin. There was still a little water left, and they cleaned themselves up quickly before lying back down and pulling the blankets over them, not bothering to put on clothes.

“I should have spilled outside,” he muttered, half-asleep. “Do you know if Lili packed moon tea?”

She sidled closer into his arms. “We’ll worry about it later.”

Brienne wondered how insufferable Lili would be, tomorrow. But that, too, was something to worry about later.

* * *

Sometime around dawn, the misty chill woke Jaime. He got out of the bed to close the window, and when he returned, Brienne was watching him with wide, hungry eyes.

How could he resist? He made love to her, once more, and this time she put her mouth on his cock for quite some time before he made her stop, for otherwise he would not get to be inside her.

By the time they fell back asleep, Jaime was no longer shivering from the cold.

He woke properly with the sun high in the sky, coming in through the glass windows. Brienne was humming from behind the screen—when he looked, she was in the tub. She must have called for a bath, some time before he woke, for the water was pleasantly warm.

“Make room,” he said, and that was all the warning he gave her before he entered the tub, carefully folding his limbs just so, crowding her.

She watched him with incredulity. “Can’t you wait?”

“Absolutely not. It’s freezing out there.” It was not. But he would never admit it. He flicked some water on her and she responded with a shove, and somehow, somehow, she ended in his lap squirming and sliding against his chest as he fucked her again.

He could not imagine a future where he could not touch her. It was the first time he had been able to spend all night with a woman, to sleep beside her without the fear of discovery. That it was this woman and not anyone else, a woman so unlike any other… He would not lose this. He had already lost her once, and he would not survive a second time.

Eventually the bathwater cooled and they had to abandon the bath. They dressed in robes the serving girls had left behind when they had brought in the water and, feeling indulgent after his blissful evening, he called for a tray so they could break their fast together in the room. 

When it arrived, brought in by the same serving girl Lili had been so taken with the previous day, he let Brienne choose from the cold cuts and fruit first. She had selected a few grapes and a hunk of cheese when he began to speak, not quite knowing what he wanted to say. “When we reach Tarth,” he began, hesitant. Would she want him? She seemed happy enough with him, now, but would she want him to stay?

She looked up, looking almost bashful, shy, as though she didn’t have him to thank for the whisker burn on her thighs. “Stay?” she asked him. She cleared her throat. “I mean to ask you, would you like to stay?”

His heart soared. But… “Won’t your father object?”

She smiled like he had told her some funny jest. “You might need to make a show of courting me,” she said. “But no. He should not object to you.”

“He should,” he said. “I am the Kingslayer. My sister murdered your husband. I have debased you! Look, I have the roguish beard to prove it.” He waved at the week old growth on his face. “Any father who sees this should run me off his island.”

Sternly, she said, “Then I suppose you’d better shave, if you want to have any hope of winning him over.” She reached over and cupped his jaw. “He does not trust easily, but he trusts me. We cannot—I must stay in mourning for a year, before I can wed again. But if you do not mind the wait, if you truly wish to stay with me…”

“For as long as you would have me,” he said, meaning it true. 

She ran her thumb over the coarse hair of his cheek, a mockingly playful frown on her face, “You do need to do something about the beard though.”

“You don’t think I should grow it out? The Baratheons made it look so dignified.”

He was rewarded with her laugh, and a kiss. “No. I’ve had enough bearded men in my life, I think.”

“Then let me fetch my razor. I don’t want it on my face a minute longer.”

When they left the inn, Jaime’s face was bare. Lili looked between the two of them with a knowing smile, and Jaime, never one to shy away from a spectacle, planted a wet kiss on Brienne’s cheek.

Lili’s smug look fell away a little. “You’re not going to be like this the rest of the way, are you? Halfway down each other’s throats like newlyweds...”

“Let’s make her regret her little scheme,” he whispered to Brienne’s ear, and to Lili, he said, “What can I say? It was a fine room you rented us, with a big enough bed.”

“I should thank you, Lili, and your cousin for her hospitality. We were… very comfortable.” Brienne said, though the blush on her face was fierce. It occured to Jaime then that while Jeyne had said she’d spent the night with _a_ Jeyne, she hadn’t specified which one. He spied something like a kiss mark, near Lili’s collar. Likely not the cousin, then. Though in a way, he could call Cersei his cousin, and it hadn’t stopped them. 

Oblivious to the mystery Jaime was solving in his head, Brienne continued, “I don’t suppose you have other innkeeping cousins, along the way?”

“Oh aye, cousins all throughout the stormlands,” Lili agreed, as she hoisted herself up into the saddle. “Innkeeps, butchers, grave-diggers. All sorts in my family. And we look after each other and the ones we love.”

“Lili!” Brienne cried, but Jaime laughed. He quite liked the girl—she had more wit than half the court, and it seemed he had a lot to thank her for. He couldn’t begrudge her protectiveness of the lady.

“Worry not,” he said. “Neither you nor your lady have anything to fear from the dreaded kingslayer.”

She looked unapologetically petulant, and didn’t bother to hide the protective expression on her face. “Don’t expect me to apologise. She’s had a hard time of it.”

Jaime looked away, abashed. Lili was right, and had he not contributed to Brienne’s suffering, a little? “And I have no intentions of adding to her hardships. I want to… Well… We’ve agreed, that when we get there—”

“I wouldn’t worry, Lili,” Brienne said, and pulled her horse between the two of them as she had done the day before. “Ser Jaime and I have reached an understanding, and I’ve enough confidence my father will approve of us.”

Jaime glanced at Lili across the back of Brienne’s horse. She was looking at Brienne with something akin to sisterly affection. Better a loyal, irreverent maidservant than a meek one that would turn her cloak, he supposed. And it was something they had in common. Hopefully by the time they arrived at Tarth he would have earned her approval. 

“If you say so, milady. But the minute you don’t want him around anymore, you let me know.” It was more joking now, lighter, and Jaime rewarded her with a smile in return.

“The minute I’m unwanted _I’ll_ let you know, though I promise I am in no hurry to meet with your butcher cousin.”

Brienne made a little noise of soft, fond frustration. “If you’re both quite done?” she said, and nudged her horse forward, finally leading them home.

Jaime followed, eager to see Tarth. Eager to meet Brienne’s father and perhaps even Lili’s family, but he was mostly eager, some day, when her mourning was over, to be able to call it his home as well.

When they arrived, Jaime thought he would challenge Brienne to another bout. The score was yet to be set, between them—but he suspected they would truly be well-matched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're very humbled by the response to this fic. It started off as a wild idea and we completely expected it to remain a wild idea that only we enjoyed. Thank you to everyone who commented, kudosed, bookmarked, shared, came to yell at us publicly and privately about this fic.
> 
> We are particularly thankful to Luthien and Samirant for being great betas, who also tolerated the times these last few months when we have shared the one braincell between us and as a result tended towards being very obnoxious. We don't deserve the two of you but we are grateful that you humour us anyway. 😍

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. You can find us as slipsthrufingers and nire-the-mithridatist on tumblr.


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